The Spoonbill Generator

These low and oily charmers

Will soon be unemployed

And, in their moist pyjamas

(The price of loving llamas)

Their reputations void.

These unctuous appeasers

Will one day pay the price

And cry in vain to Jesus

In words that echo Caesar's:

"We promise to be nice!"

These sycophantic crawlers

Have nowhere else to go

Their prospects are as small as

The fishermen who call us

The Saviours of Bordeaux

These smarmy old pretenders

Now hounded out of court

By invisible agendas

Of sightless money-lenders

By whom their souls were bought

These slimy social climbers

With nothing in the bank

These hypocrite two-timers

Their books cooked on the Primus

Which burnt the ship that sank.

These thinly-gilded idols

With thinning teeth and hair

As serpent, when he sidles,

Like horses lacking bridles

Boldly from his lair,

These hateful little vermin

So sullen in defeat

And eager to determine

Their chance of wearing ermine

Now each has lost his seat

Contributors:	Roland, Bop, TG, P, Linda.
Poem finished:	22nd May 1997.