WHAT PRICE ST GEORGE?

(Written years ago when we still had Council Houses and Rent Collectors.)

 The dragon thought he’d like to move
for he’d eaten all his neighbours
and was feeling rather lonely
as the result of all his labours.

He did not know just where to go
so, to the council wrote
and received by post, next morning,
a short official note.

We have received your letter
and the matter is now in hand.
We’re short of accommodation
but we’re sure you’ll understand.

We’re sorry to have to tell you,
to confirm your very worst fears
that you won’t qualify for a house
for at least a hundred years.

A hundred years? Too long, he roared
for even a dragon to wait.
Annoyed, he chased the postman
and swallowed him, whole, at the gate.

I’ll write and tell the council,
if they let me loose in town,
the numbers on their waiting list
will substantially be cut down.

The suggestion received at the Town Hall
was not without attraction
but the Chairman didn’t think that they
could really approve of the action.

We’ll call a special meeting
to dicuss the whole affair.
I’m sure, if we thrash the matter out
we’ll find an answer somewhere.

A dragon isn’t quite the type
of tenant that we need
and the shortage of rent collectors,
even now, is acute indeed.

The affair was too big to handle
so they decided to pass the buck.
They passed it to the Government,
with the best of British luck.

The M.P’s decided a dragon
lowered the general tone
so, to force it from the country,
they created a smokeless zone.

The dragon was deported
to a country, far away
and at a Cabinet meeting,
much later that same day,

‘we’ve really rendered a service,’
was the motion they debated,
for the country that he’s gone to
is over-populated.

© Marion Sharville    

About Marion Sharville

A website of Poems and Short stories
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