(With thanks to Thomas Gray)
The curfew tolls the knell of coming dread, The lowing management wind slowly to their ends, And homeward plod, their weary tread, To leave the company to darkness and thee, my friends. Now fades the glimm'ring sites of outsourcery, And all directors a solemn silence hold, Save where their money should be paid, tax free, And drowsy workers face winter's fiercest cold. A breezy call of "Will you help?" from PM Cameron Meant Chairman Green became an advisor, An 'industry czar', to plug the theme and hammer on That private enterprise works, the eulogiser. But yonder Philip (not BHS) who saw it coming. Arrived at Number Ten but who would listen? So he jumped ship before succumbing To the push of May, newly elected, and on a mission.
Beneath those rugged oaks of commerce, The outsourcing board their costs did tighten. Worker's wages fell, while to directors honours And extra cash were showered - viz Baroness Huyton. The shares slid down, the market aflutter. Investors lost savings, their nest eggs in ruin But Howson laughed, oh, no life in the gutter, A contract's a contract and if not I'm suing.
If only workers could say, “Enough Of free enterprise, it doesn't always apply.” As commuters on Southern Rail, who have it tough, Or weary East Coast travellers will testify. The problem is the Tories - yesterday's men, and women, and ethnic minorities - who seem to think our daily life and sole concern is money, Amen. The country heads down a darkening path to the brink. Come on, Jezza, save our wearisome nation And lighten our loads with fairness and money. Help the old and the poor and infirm rise up from their station And lead us to the land of flowing milk and honey.