The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
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Brief comment on the
Heads of Government meeting…
Oh dear…
There was once a young fellow called Prinky,
Who killed a bad Austrian. Kinky!
In Sarajevo
He gave him a big heave-ho.
Then they took him away in a Dinky.
* * *
Ask why, my friends! Why must we still engage
With memories of an earlier, evil age?
Why celebrate destruction, grief, and war?
Let’s end the state, taxation, violence, Gore.
And Father Time will soon observe, with wit;
“I wrote, but they knew not a word of it.
And now it’s coming to their close of play,
The umpire’s finger points a different way.”