Lord High Doggerel

Hey, diddle, dicey, Chancy’s on the town

where some like white bread and some like brown.

If you want it buttered, it’ll meet with a frown

‘cause Chancy heads the money ring, approved by the Crown.

Our Chancellor’s a bonny lad; he’s said to be nice.

You might trust him once, but you wouldn’t trust him twice:

his budget is his cup of tea, some say his nest of lice

breeding easy fleas on the Bank of England mice

who won’t stand down

before they flop and drown

when Chancy floods the town

with his frown.  

We’re glad he’s not in Scotland; too many quotes from Hume

would give a touch of cachet in the face of doom

when he snatches at his lineage, the Lords of Boom,

as the money-pile he’s riding on slides down to the tomb

that’s the economic bust.

Will he lust in the dust,

or will he just rust?

Yes, he must.

Oh, no, he won’t; he’s up again! He’s in his proper place

aside of the Prime Minister, aslant of the Mace,

which he thinks he’s ace at wielding when the EU’s on his case;

he shams a market fight, but needs more to save his face

in the resurrection game.

All’s aflame.

Such is fame.

Shame!

So hey, diddle, fiddle, Chancy’s always round the town,

where some snatch white bread and turn away the brown.

They always have it buttered and ignore every frown

as Chancy tweaks the money ring.

All fall down.