I Met a Man….

This poem was inspired by Bendy Girl’s post on Tuesday. With thanks to David Cameron, Ed Miliband and a thousand comment threads.

I Met a Man; or Hell in a Handcart

I met a man who met a man who met a man who said,
“My work-shy next-door neighbour is a-swinging of the lead,
He says that he’s disabled but I know that limp’s a fake,
He’s not really sick, he’s just a shirker on the take.”

I met a man who met a man who’d been told by another,
That further down the street there lived a lazy single mother,
With twenty kids, a welfare cheque, a house just like a castle,
Prada, Gucci, Louboutin and a bank account in Basel.

I met a man who met a man who said he knew for sure,
That Britain’s welfare state is like an ever open door,
Anyone and everyone from here to Timbuktu,
Scrounging off the taxes that are paid by me and you.

I met a man who met a man who said it was a fact,
We’d never even notice if all council staff were sacked,
He also knew for certain, though how he wouldn’t say,
Those council fat-cat bosses earn a thousand pounds a day.

I met a man who met a man who swore that it was true,
Senior civil servants only work from ten till two,
Then off they go for lunch breaks in posh restaurants and bars,
And slope off home at tea time in their chauffeur driven cars.

I met a man who met a man who said he knew a bloke,
Sacked for telling nothing but a silly little joke,
The woman that he said it to is richer than a queen,
A million compensation for hurt feelings, it would seem.

I met a man who met a man who told a chilling tale,
(He knew that it was true because he’d read it in the Mail)
Of a Brave New Britain run by Muslims, reds and gays,
Coming to a street near you within the next few days.

I met a man who met a man who’d overheard by chance,
An evil EU plot to make Great Britain part of France,
They’ll make us drink in litres and put garlic on our bread,
And honest John and Jack must change to Jean and Jacques instead.

I met a man who met a man who said that it’s no wonder
With all these bums and scroungers that the country’s going under,
Things ain’t what they used to be so sound the warning bell,
Climb aboard the handcart for we’re on our way to hell.

Additional verses are welcome, if you’re feeling creative.

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