In our garden, things are sluggish,
Munching through the green and grime:
Hardly bothered to be thuggish
As we leave our trails of slime –
We are mucous millionaires.
Austerity? Who really cares…
Sliding forward while we’re drooling,
We eat all the poshest veg,
Pay for sluglets’ private schooling,
Live behind the finest hedge –
We are dukes of special dribble.
Austerity? A tiny quibble…
We are blennhorrheic bruisers,
Burping through the leaves and stalks,
Slurping like a pack of schmoozers
Popping all their wasteful corks –
We’re a sultanate of sputum.
Austerities? We all refute ’em.
Secretive and mock-sebaceous
We consume what you produce –
Sticky, drivelling, rapacious,
We are stored with Tory juice –
Saliva’s moguls, drenched in goo.
Austerity? It’s good for you!