The Ballad of Mar-a-Lago by Chris O’Carroll In the gold of the Florida sunshine, Where gunplay enlivens the air, The rich pay to hang with the richer At the president’s opulent lair.
With its beach-blanket, surfer-dude moniker And its six-figure membership fees, This joint is the acme of classy, Like those White House Seals marking the tees.
This enclave is stately like Vegas, With the gilt of imperial Rome. The Golfer-in-Chief has decreed it His own customised pleasure dome.
He meets here with all the top leaders. He shows them his bombs and his cake. Someone’s sure to be turning a profit On the fabulous deals they all make.
The Ballad of Watford Gap by Bill Greenwell O I have been to Watford Gap And I have passed between its tors And I have eaten many a snack Within its service station doors.
In Watford Gap there dwelt the Saxons – Dwelt also Normans, cruel and coarse: Cars and barges jostle thither Where Watling Street heard Roman horse.
‘O have you been to Watford Gap And is it hard by Patchetts Green?’ ‘Alas, fair maid, beshrew thy maps – A different Watford dost thou mean.’
No sea brims over Watford Gap, No river fills its surly mouth: But Southerners may sense The North And Northerners may greet The South.
The Ballad of Morningside by Brian Murdoch The girls who live in Morningside Are not of slender means, For this is Edinburgh posh; These little girls are queens.
Their dreams are never troubled By things which seem absurd – Of nunneries, or of closed doors. They’re not to be disturbed.
From Morningside they sally forth Just after breakfast time, To learn more than the facts of life From a teacher in her prime.
Nobody ever rings them up To tell them they must die. Sex and religion fill the world From here to Peckham Rye.
The Ballad of Reyston Cross by W.J. Webster No one foresaw the motorway Would bring commuters down And turn into a dormitory What was a sleepy town. You couldn’t blame the farming folk Who cashed in on their land, You couldn’t blame the councillors – It wasn’t what they planned. The neighbouring county’s superstore Was what hit High Street trade; Now Amazonian predators Invisibly invade. They didn’t knock down Reyston Cross, They siphoned off its soul, And where its heart for centuries stood They left a yawning hole.
The Ballad of Silicon Valley by Max Gutmann When Gougal Douglas came to town, He saw how things were run. We toiled at jobs the livelong day; We had no time for fun.
He gave us social media So we would not be squares. He got us all to use our cars To save folks taxi fares.
He showed the news was all online; We send it to our pals Along with kitty videos And pics of naked gals.
His motto ‘Don’t Be Evil, guys’ We’ve grown to understand. To work for pay was such a bore. To work for free is grand!
The Ballad of Maple Park by D.A. Prince They’re men who live in Maple Park whose wits are cold as snow, who warm themselves on barbed ripostes and commenting below.
These men who live in Maple Park draw down the internet and find themselves reflected in like-minds they’ve never met.
The Maple Park men air their views to such as care to scan and, hunched with finger-printed screens, feel this is man-to-man.
Women whose home is Maple Park (their real-world address) prefer the cheery face-to-face of kindred sisterness.
Your next challenge is to provide a lesson in the facts of life courtesy of a well-known character in fiction (please specify). Email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 11 April, please.
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