This poem has a second job:
one thousand pounds per letter.
No matter that it’s middling
and there are plenty better.
You may well bleat that
profiteering isn’t in its brief
and that the simple joy of words
should be its sole relief
but times like these are tough;
this poem’s suffered more than most.
So now that you have read it
there’s an invoice in the post.
[scandal in Parliament about MPs raking it in with second jobs]
