Dearly-beloved Mr
Squire
so long as you lead the gawky choir
of critical cherubs that chirrup and
pipe
in the weekly
press their self-satisfied swipe.
Oh London’s Mercury, Sunday-School Squire
so long as you tune your
turn-turn lyre
with
its tinkle-winkle and tweeddle-dee
to the lesser fry in the
hierarchy.
So long will they lift their impertinent
voices
and chirrup
their almost indecent noises
almost as empty as belching or
hiccup
in grand
chorale to your monthly kick-up.
So now we beg you, Mr Squire
do now once forever,
retire
and leave the
critical piggy-wiggies.