UnNews:The poet's financial report

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The poet's financial report

Fake News that's honestly fake

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24 June 2009

LONDON, England - In a desperate effort to make the financial news more accessible to everyone, this report has been written by a poet, who wishes to be known only as Otter.

Reg poet

Otter the poet

Amongst trees of ivory and elephants of pine dwells the hidden lark song,

That is what the wise men said to me when I crossed the bridge of public face,

Here is the news.

I have often reclined to say what a true lie is and what a false truth is,

But I see no reason why those of my kin should not repent their duck houses,

For the benefit of public expenditure allowances.

For they may drape themselves in the silks of Aladdin and bathe in the tears of a rose cloud,

It is not ours to play the fool for a communist Box Social Republic; with a semi-colon,

Quoth the bloodied skylark: “It’s all labour’s fault.

How can they stand when we know how the bull have torn through London streets?

Tearing the Venetian pillars apart; drowning the poor Eastender,

But they don’t notice ‘cause they’re watching the pay-per-view channel.

Would you forgive him and the unseeing eyes?

Twix-t moors of lavender as the clock strikes thirteen once more?

Please don’t vote for the Lib Dems.

A man of the worker blames the man of tradition while the versa vices,

Tradition is fulfilled in the pitied equilibrium,

Everyone goes off to lunch and you’re paying.

I will give you my pearl of wisdom for nowt,

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Houses of Parliament,

All the MPs are in Ibiza.

Chickens are finding less of the corn in the Brown fields,

Farmer Jones and Farmer Smith will soon need a fox,

This is a metaphor for the economic crisis, or something.

Broken glass upon which we walk has turned to snow once more in Summer,

A lonely figure cuts itself in the skyline,

Another convoluted metaphor is lost on this Uncyclopedia reader.

The egg whisk will lie down with the pyramid,

The speaker system has slain Able’s brother Bob as we pick Strawberries in East Berlin,

“What the hell are you talking about?”

No modern poem is complete without a swear word,


There we go.

A mayfly flits from my Fanta cigarettes to the picnic,

As dogs and cats rain from a UFO,

Sceptics remain Sceptical.

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