[Caveat lector: This poor composition was assembled as a Satyr in a previous age, and, being no longer of present Topick, its author, this humble Scribe, begs that his audience will treat it therefore as it is, a memorium to the Public Sentiment of its time.]
Do they gobble granny’s savings, Mr Clegg,
Where they read old Cato’s ravings, do they, Clegg?
Are they, farting, drinking, moaning,
Eating up our nationhood,
Do they profit us yet nothing,
And corrupt the public good?
Are the Classics such a danger,
Is it thanks to linguists that we beg;
Is it they that us endanger, is it, Clegg?
Is it playwrights dodging tax, Mr Clegg?
That requires such attacks, Mr Clegg?
Is it all the fault of singers
That our finances are parlous?
Was it they who took our tractors,
And invested them in harlots?
If the Arts were but less funded,
If the banker’s book more thick,
Would our economy be healthy,
Would it, Nick?
It would greatly, I would own, Mr Clegg,
Please me if you left this well alone, Mr Clegg.
In the matters of our bread you will fight your case and win,
But preying on the arts is a hiding looking thin;
If the voice of Murdoch falters,
If with universities we’re thick,
We’ll be on our way to Bedlam,
Will we, Nick?
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