Rivers will subside in time,
And roadsides will be dry:
The sun will burn, the experts turn
To Indian summers by and by.
At every tabloid news-desk
In every Wapping drink-hole
The hunt is on to come upon
The new and Very Dreaded Sinkhole.
Sinkholes have appeared at will
In quiet English places,
That journalists may flex their wrists
Upon their sudden, several cases.
There’s a sinkhole under money
Under Scotland’s powder keg
There’s a sinkhole for the very poor,
Beneath both Cameron and Clegg.
One day this noble country
This squabbling island race
Will be a sinkhole, so I think
And will vanish without any trace.
Until then tiptoe on the mud
And dance around its rim:
The sinkhole rules, and fills with fools
Like Gove and Pickles, on a whim.