You CAN Polish a Turd
By Jane Hyphen
There is a place in Ireland,
Where it's said they can polish a turd.
With rags and Vim;
On spits they spin;
With nosepegs on,
The ladies smooth;
With deftful fingers,
And lightening moves,
They moderate the final shine;
Much blethering to pass the time.
While distant warpipes play the sounds,
Of greener mountains, bluer seas,
Of pale moons rising,
Perhaps all three.
They said it couldn't be done,
And consumers wouldn't sink that low,
But alchemy has paved the way,
And where there's shit,
There's often pay.
And both ways where the black stuff flows,
You can hear laments of missing elbows,
Where sharpened Shillelaghs came at night,
To men too stunned to stand and fight.
The elbows stolen for their grease,
Left lonely arms in screaming pain,
And in the melee to release,
Some floating hands to search in vain.
For businessmen have never cared,
Talented fiddlers were not even spared.
And what of the shiny article,
So full of form and sparticle?
It was much revered in yonder town,
Where folk dress up and mince around.
It was stuck onto hats and red-soled shoes,
And smoked to cure the recession blues,
And mounted onto jewellery,
And sold in bulk on Gems TV.
'But how do they do it?' wondered China,
Who'd never seen crap transformed any finer.
Some scanty details were released,
Regarding the smelting of elbows for grease;
Where smelters rumble, men grow rich,
Just ask Roman Abramovich.
There was call to shut the operation,
But police couldn't find its exact location;
It moves around so I've been told,
Between luxury homes which stand unsold.
And people are hungry for crap that shines,
Especially in these meagre times.