Channel Tunnelling After Sue Morten Fuel Duel Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Some bright sparks said O Blighty!
a long long time ago
thanked icons of almighty
that they packed up to go
to France, pyjamas, nightie
silk, satin sporty show.
This gospel write rings rightly
as Western gringos know,
though ski resorts glow sprightly
with artificial snow.

For France the weekly hours
are thirty five at most
without the April showers
which reign on England's coast,
Law holidays empowers
six weeks with wine to toast,
some butter bread, some glowers
at others' flowered boast.

In Paris public transport
runs on from five to three,
for poor we're never spoil-sport,
the cost is almost free,
and so one can but exhort
you holiday with me!
French sun is sold for export,
we import English tea.

Though strikes occur, they rarely
unjustified appear
they're faced and fairly squarely
are doomed to disappear
but governments are rarely
known to be quite sincere
proposing wages barely
as high and as tax free
as income providential
from oily Saudi flogs.
One difference essential
between the Brits and Frogs
the latter's high potential
for leaping out of fogs,
as queues are rare, torrential
rain's going to the dogs.

The French aren't good at queuing,
or praising pomp and power,
they far prefer pursuing
short skirts on Eyeful Tower,
Gainst slander they love suing,
burn oil at midnight hour,
These aptitudes accruing
are they worth English flower?

Compared to French connection,
who'll treasure Virgin rail,
Examine our election,
small leaves great paper trail!
Though natural selection
from Darwin stems you're pale
reach sun-tanned spa complexion
not beach bleached stranded whale!

French prices rise more slowly
than those across the sea,
the French are oh so lowly
as foreign tourists see,
tis known the French care solely
for neighbours, family,
Eternal equals wholly
fraternal, liberty.
The Euro's value's holy
Cents pounded seem to be!

Whoever could indict a
land so serene vents spleen!
What other fields are brighter
crops yellow, rust and greens?
what sense of humour lighter?
what love for Kings and Queens?
and what courageous fighter?
go tell it to Marines!

This verse could run on quickly,
forever and a day,
'til oil declines too sickly
to make inflation's hay
while sun shines, tempers prickly
will surely fade away,
as will these lines, though tickly
they surely pay their way.

Too many finite leeway
accord attention spans,
judge short rants trophy freeway,
France right drives and left bans,
so stanzas soon shall see way
to end their tale which scans,
leave site unseen for pre-pay
bang and mashers, cola cans!

Strike British strike addiction
with Maggie Thatcher voice,
From wise words' speedy diction
the reader makes his choice
what truth is, what is fiction,
gold silence, silver: voice!
Verse ends here without friction,
so reader rare, rejoice!

Brits are used to queuing
For most things on life's road
but Friday the thirteenth
could see tempers explode
as Shell's tanker drivers
refuse to haul their load
and the pumps will be dry
where once petrol flowed.

They're going out on strike
for better rates of pay
have never had a rise
for sixteen years they say
The government has warned
don't panic buy today
other haulage firms can
deliver without delay.

With prices rising fast
our cars we're told to share,
or use public transport
but can we afford the fare?
While waiting in the rain
we say a quiet prayer
for the bus to turn up
and save us from despair.

Public transport is best
or so they proclaim
I've tried it out myself
and think its rather lame
with routes cut left and right
it really is a shame
fuel is up in price and
getting to work's a game.

So next time at the pumps
while waiting in the queue
think how much you need it
don't take more than you're due
leave a little for others
so they don't have to stew
fair shares for one and all
will see us Brits come through.