New world of squeak, I hear you speak
But where are all your people?
They are cultivating their
Allotments in The Times
- a thin chalk ground from which emerge
Unhealthy black opinions.
Oh, world of squeak, I hear you shriek
From my bomb-proof bunker!
And from the Ministry of ‘WORK'
A terse communiqué is issued.
It reads: ‘Will those
Who've yet to register, do so now -
Each moment makes it worse! '
Whatever this means, its noble verse
Is sure to strike straight at the heart
Of those who lurk in dingy prose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem