fact, opinion and poetry (not airy-fairy)

Thursday, 27 March 2014

Grantrover Meadows

In England's fields, the crud lies steaming;
The landowner's new car is gleaming.
In upland meadows, sheep are grazing;
The public subsidy's amazing.

Without a handout, nowt would happen;
They tax us hard, to watch cows crapping.
For helpless townies, all is begrudged;
Range Rover man gets rich from turd.

No sign here of free enterprise,
Though ministers praise it to the skies.
Landowners live on government dole,
While affecting to despise the prole
Who gets a fraction of the dosh,
The Tories hand out to the posh.

The tenant farmer's not so flash,
It's owners who get all the cash.
A grant for digging ditches, then
A grant to fill them in again.
In fact, I'm led to understand
They get grants just for owning land.
Grants for this, and grants for that,
A grant for every beast that's shat
On England's green unpleasant land.

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