Back to the Westminster belfry;
A new year awakes from its snooze;
Now that we’re Santa-less, elf-free,
It’s time to come off the old booze –
Here are the batkins, with parasol wings,
Preparing their dongs for a volley of dings.
It’s hard to make out what they’re squeaking,
It’s hard to accept they have whiskers;
What horrible havoc they’re wreaking:
Their nonsense sounds sticky and viscous –
They hang upside down, making great consternation;
They search for their meaning by echolocation.
This one has very sharp teeth,
This one has blood-boltered fur,
This one has claws to unsheathe,
This one declines to confer:
This one looks rat-like, and pampers its snout.
Most of them like to be hanging about.
The head bat has quietly shopped her a-
Ppalling and over-fed friend:
In an order of megachiroptera,
The weaklings are killed in the end –
Boris the fruitbat is speaking in patois:
It isn’t surprise that he’s felled by a fatwa.
And here they are shouting in tongues,
Complaining they’ve nowhere to perch;
They scream at the top of their lungs,
And, according to recent research,
Their gabble and racket can still be decoded.
Why bother? They’d all of them best be exploded.
Yes, gather for more of the same –
The twittering, part-crooked swoops,
The essays in yah-boo and blame,
Their huddling in secretive groups.
Now for the noise of malevolent babies!
Now for a dose of the Cabinet’s rabies …