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THEY SHOULD HAVE ASKED MY HUSBAND
By Pam Ayres
This world is complicated, imperfect and oppressed
And it’s not hard to feel timid, apprehensive and depressed.
It seems that all around us tides of questions ebb and flow,
And people want solutions, but they don’t know where to go.
Opinions abound, but who is wrong and who is right?
People need a prophet, a diffuser of the light.
Someone they can turn to as the crises rage and swirl,
Someone with the remedy, the wisdom, the pearl.
Well they should have asked my husband; he’d have told them then and there,
His thoughts on immigration, teenage mothers, Tony Blair,
The future of the monarchy; house prices in the South;
The wait for hip replacements, BSE and foot and mouth.
Yes they should have asked my husband, he can sort out any mess;
He can rejuvenate the railways, he can cure the NHS,
So any little niggle, anything you want to know,
Just run it past my husband, wind him up and let him go.
Congestion on the motorways, free holidays for thugs,
The damage to the ozone layer, refugees, drugs.
These may defeat the brains of any politician bloke,
But present it to my husband, and he’ll solve it in a stroke.
He’ll clarify the situation; he’ll make it crystal clear;
You'll feel the glazing of your eyeballs, the bending of your ear.
Corruption at the top, he’s an authority on that;
And the Mafia, Ghaddaffia, and Yasser Arafat.
Upon each one of these he brings his intellect to shine.
In a great compelling voice that’s twice as loud as yours or mine.
I often wonder what it’s like to be so strong,
Infallible, articulate, self-confident and wrong.
When it comes to tolerance he hasn’t got a lot:
Joy riders should be guillotined, and muggers should be shot.
The sound of his own voice becomes like music to his ears,
And he hasn’t got an inkling that he’s boring us to tears.
My friends don’t call so often; they’ve got busy lives I know;
But it’s not every day you want to hear a windbag suck and blow.
Encyclopaedias? – on them we never have to call;
Why clutter up the bookshelves, when my husband knows it all?
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THEY SHOULD HAVE ASKED MY HUSBAND
By Pam Ayres
This world is complicated, imperfect and oppressed
And it’s not hard to feel timid, apprehensive and depressed.
It seems that all around us tides of questions ebb and flow,
And people want solutions, but they don’t know where to go.
Opinions abound, but who is wrong and who is right?
People need a prophet, a diffuser of the light.
Someone they can turn to as the crises rage and swirl,
Someone with the remedy, the wisdom, the pearl.
Well they should have asked my husband; he’d have told them then and there,
His thoughts on immigration, teenage mothers, Tony Blair,
The future of the monarchy; house prices in the South;
The wait for hip replacements, BSE and foot and mouth.
Yes they should have asked my husband, he can sort out any mess;
He can rejuvenate the railways, he can cure the NHS,
So any little niggle, anything you want to know,
Just run it past my husband, wind him up and let him go.
Congestion on the motorways, free holidays for thugs,
The damage to the ozone layer, refugees, drugs.
These may defeat the brains of any politician bloke,
But present it to my husband, and he’ll solve it in a stroke.
He’ll clarify the situation; he’ll make it crystal clear;
You'll feel the glazing of your eyeballs, the bending of your ear.
Corruption at the top, he’s an authority on that;
And the Mafia, Ghaddaffia, and Yasser Arafat.
Upon each one of these he brings his intellect to shine.
In a great compelling voice that’s twice as loud as yours or mine.
I often wonder what it’s like to be so strong,
Infallible, articulate, self-confident and wrong.
When it comes to tolerance he hasn’t got a lot:
Joy riders should be guillotined, and muggers should be shot.
The sound of his own voice becomes like music to his ears,
And he hasn’t got an inkling that he’s boring us to tears.
My friends don’t call so often; they’ve got busy lives I know;
But it’s not every day you want to hear a windbag suck and blow.
Encyclopaedias? – on them we never have to call;
Why clutter up the bookshelves, when my husband knows it all?
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