The Tragic State

Alas, poor Squeak! I knew him well, a bird Of infinite elastic, now gone slack. Behold the scroll of two and twenty-six, Wherein the Lords of Canberra do swear That gold shall rain upon the thirsty plains. Yet look upon thy neck, so long and lean; Is this the surplus promised by the King? They speak in tongues of fiscal rectitude, While dogs of state do starve on hollow air. The Great Inflation howls at every door, A spectral beast that eats the very bone. They offer tithes of negative release, To those who hoard the dens and lofty roofs, While pups of low estate must sleep in dust. The Stage of Three is set with silver spoons, To feed the fat and starve the wagging tail. O, monstrous craft! To call a debt a boon, And mask the hollow purse with gilded words. Where be thy squeak, thy boast, thy rubber song? Quite chop-fallen? So is the Southern Land. The scribes do chant of growth and steady hands, Yet every bowl remains a desert dry. We chase the tail of progress through the mire, Whilst bureaucrats do spin the wheel of fate. Lay down thy head, thou wretched, plucked remains, For in this budget, hope is but a ghost, And we, the hounds, do howl at empty moon.