There’s a kind of hush, a blush,
All over the churlish world tonight.
Not a needle rush, more an emphatical crush.
The gentle sweeping of an iniquitous brush,
Gathering up swathes of Interplanetary dust.
Because someone out there –
As I’m sure you’ll agree –
Must.

It’s a kind of tragic magic, a royal flush,
Though the kind hearts and coronets
Have breached the people’s trust.
We could kill them as they slumber –
With one punctiliously placed knife thrust
As they languish in the torpor of the artless unjust,
But to be honest….
I’m really not that fussed.

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