Saturday, 9 January 2010


We all have an issue on which we’re expert,
Or a point that we wish we’d the sense to insert,
Or a particular passion that is somewhat overt,
Well here’s our account, so please stay alert.

I’ll begin to explain but you’ll have to be quiet,
And promise you will not return home and try it,
As the story is louder than last years’ riot,
And harder to swallow than your diet.

I was sat at my desk at the start of a week,
In the middle of summer, but not at its peak,
As the weather had not yet refined its technique
For dispensing its sunshine, however oblique.

Good fortune was forecast for Saturday hence,
And by Wednesday and Thursday it still made good sense,
So come Friday night our indulgence commenced,
And the music was stronger than the neighbours’ defence.

Thru the night it continued until morning was near,
And dressed up as bank robbers we drank all the beer,
And prepared to be warmed by the sun and its cheer,
But by ten o’clock it had still not appeared.

We were pissed off but pissed up, so we waited awhile,
But the sun didn’t show us its substance or style,
So we picked up the phone and decided to dial
The Prime Minister and speak to his smile.

But it was Saturday morning and he was not in,
Nor was his wife or the one with the spin,
So we eventually spoke to an answer machine,
And asked why the forecasters had fucked up again.

We didn’t leave names or addresses behind,
But I do not suppose we were that hard to find,
For the very next week the sun was to shine,
Well until the power station nearby came on line.

So we rang them and told them to turn off the smoke,
And they said they would hit the off switch as a joke,
And we all laughed about it with vodka and coke,
And de-vanned to the garden to receive our sunstroke.

And now we are certain of our influence,
As there’s nobody out there we cannot convince,
That the sun is our subject, and the evidence,
Is up in the sky and has shone ever since.

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