A poem by David A. E. Murdoch.
No fish, then no seabirds, nor sharks, only whales
With their blubber and blowholes and rudder like tales
For they sift the plankton on which the fish feed
But we eat the fish, not from hunger but greed
We harvest no wheat as the land’s set asides
So we buy bread from Russia at tuppence a slice
And the bourgeois spew up as the peasants must queue
For the bread which they harvest is eaten by you
You who have eggs and your cornflakes in bed
Cos kippers are orange with E42Z
Pigs feed on turnips which nobody eats
They make lovely pork scratching, all wrapped up so neat
I do not suggest we all dine out on gruel
And relinquish our claim to the sea’s fossil fuel
But let us all plant what we can in the soil
And careful, don’t spill, when you’re drilling for oil
*From ‘Flying My Own Plane’ by David A.E. Murdoch,
compiled by Christine Wilkie. See Article.
Thanks to Christine for contributing the above.
Flying My Own Plane By David A. E. Murdoch is available
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