Bushels and pecks and barleycorns a glorious inheritance chains, leagues, gills the tides of history the great rolling mass of history, our reclaimed birthright one holds back a tear while ordering a quarter of humbugs for everything is quantifiably British now, we can measure our waiting lists in leagues, count our dead by the hundredweight observe the roods of sleeping bags and cardboard the queue at the food bank is ten perches long (or ten rods, if you prefer, either way, it's 250 links) two gallons to the peck of tears four to the half bushel emphasise the Imperial ahead of the measurement, and why stop there? why not count the flow of money in florins settling gently on the floors of offshore counting-houses Universal Credit, reduced by guineas but a thrupennny bit for nurses, be grateful have a shilling, console yourself that even if there's no food on the shelves at least we can measure nothing in ounces
Comments
Post a Comment