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Saturday Live

Elvis McGonagall

  • Becky Vincent
  • 20 Apr 07, 03:17 PM

Elvis McGonagall - poet, twit and armchair revolutionary does the rhyming this week.

Find out more about him on his website.


Wordy Rappinghood
It’s time to bejewel the Queen’s English
Like a sprachgefuhl Pygmalion
Will Self is in da house. Respect.
Let’s get sesquipedalian

Hyperbolic Bucolic
Driven out of your townie mind
By the City’s clamour ‘n clang
You dream of a rose-tinted idyll untouched
By wireless or charabanc
Far from London’s madding crowd
Where Prada is simply absurd
Where less means more and you mend and make do
Where housework’s a dirty word
‘Cos who needs Oxford Circus
When there’s Flumpton Shaddock’s Shangri-La?
Who needs Tesco Metro
When there’s chutney in the jar?
It’s grow-your-own and bake-it-yourself
It’s a garden of delight
It’s birdsong ‘n badgers ‘n bunnies ‘n bats
It’s a moonlit star-bright night
It’s cakes and fetes and homemade jam
A sagging roof and a drystone wall
It’s a market with genuine farmers
Hang on. There’s Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall
And a fair-trade-pashmina-frappucino café
Where the cows once chewed on the cud
And Alexander-technique-scented-candle boutiques
And Eden’s now Notting Hill-Under-The-Mud
And The Shuttlecock ‘n Turnip’s gone gastro
And Crispin ‘n BottleTop have moved in next door
And the vicar’s delivering pizza
As Chelsea tractors scream by, 4x4
And there’s no local people so there’s no local shops
Just second home property pillage
So you really downsize to a tiny wee house
In Beaconscot’s cute model village

Inspector Remorse
She thought that she lived with plain Jude Law
But it seems that she must have misheard
For the name on the envelope read Sir Jude
Wetherspoon Trouser-Press Cholomondley (The Third)
She smelt a rat. Something’s fishy, she thought
She decided to ferret out the truth
She’d read too many Agatha Christies
She fancied herself as a sleuth
A little bit Marlowe, a little bit Marple
Colombo raincoat and Sherlock Holmes hat
A snoop doggy dog sniffin’ bloodhound
In a Lord Peter Wimsey cravat
So she ransacked, she rummaged, she riffled
Dusted for fingerprints all through the flat
She took photos like Kojak with a Kodak until
He caught her - interrogating the cat
Cast asunder and dumped on the doorstep
With her dreams and her wedding trousseau
Her fiance’s last words still burning her ears
“You think you’re Poirot but you’re only Clouseau”
She felt sheepish ‘n shabby ‘n shameful
Lesson learnt, though cut to the quick
For as “Life On Mars” copper Gene Hunt might have said
“Luv. It doesn’t pay to be a right private dick”

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