Monday, 17 November 2014

The Sexy Dodgy Dossier.

When Tony Blair wanted to take the country to war there was one or two small flies in the ointment. A simple lack of proof was the most significant one. The weapons inspectors could not find a shred of evidence of weapons that could possibly threaten us as a nation. 

But why let such a small problem stand in the way of everlasting fame. So he 'sexed up' what became known as the 'dodgy dossier'. In a way this whole idea of presenting something as being 'sexy' when in reality its something quite 'tawdry' is now commonplace. Its a public relations ploy that is oft used in advertising.

So I wondered if I could 'sex up' the waterways, it would certainly provide a challenge. There is an old saying - if it smells like a crock of poo, if it looks like a crock of poo. Then it usually is a crock of poo.

The Sexed up Dodgy Dossier.

I want to be the sexy poet, the laureate of the navigation;
weaving words that rhyme, that don't create frustration; 
writing of the warm sunshine, and of the dappled shade;
a special dossier of poetic words, each one carefully laid.

There's much that's bad along the cut, and little that is good;
its a rose tinted myopic view, all dodgy and misunderstood;
to paint the opposing picture, in words that hide the truth;
seeing through the tissues of lies, would not require a sleuth.

Employ a public relations guru, to cover up the unwanted truth; 
a spin doctor a charlatan a sooth sayer, with a remit so uncouth;
friends of a rubbish dumping ground, are few and far between; 
now to gloss over all of the bad bits, with fifty shades of green.

Well gosh and golly, shall wonders never cease;
I only went and got the job, I hope that you are pleased;
the remit was very easy, the requirements I fulfilled;
I only have to sugar coat, what is a very bitter pill.

So I shall try and spin the truth, but reality will still prevail;
you might read between the lines, as I spin my doctor's tale;
as I take up my new found career, just to tell it like its not;
hide and bury away the truth, and build my pension pot.

In the first two lines of verse, I write the sexed up prose;
 use spin doctor wit and guile, I as you might well suppose; 
but in lines three and four, will be the the well hid truth;
as I busily sex away, and your ruffled feather smoothed.

The canal is a fragrant place, with wonders to catch the eye;
that certain wonderful  heady scent, and an ever cloudless sky;
I'm straining at this lock gate, this thing refused to move;
I'm told that I'm enjoying it, but the aches and pains disprove.

The canal water is clean and clear; and flowers all abound;
gently flowing and leak free, is this never empty pound;
will this lock ever find a level, will the boat never move;
I can't call this a pleasure, as the heavy paddles prove.

Sweeping weeping willow trees, and reed mace growing wild; 
are the things that should have you, about the cut beguiled;
but scraping along the bottom, as the bubbles breach the top;
no maintenance and collapsed banks, prove the cut a flop.

The canal is a wonder of nature, a place that all should come;
 we will chug you to be our special friend, our best ever chum;
now all the blue green algae, is used to add colour to the cut;
as a PR guru I can say this, because of the bull we have a glut.

See all the rose and castle painted boats, once they had no peers;
see all the cheerful whistling lock keeper, and happy volunteers; 
the boaters are now just ignored, their opinion counts for nought;
its a Cyclist Angler Ramblers Trust, that make the acronym CaRT.

The partnerships are raising funds, and of cash there is enough;
people rushing forward with donations, create a throng a crush;
waterway partnerships are broken, and continue to cost despite;
I'm still spinning turning twisting, to make you believe their right;

Trustees have done a wicked job, a glorious future doth abound;
directors are all under paid, for their achievements do astound;
for it is just another old boys club, with the token girl in place; 
much mutual embarrassment, and an ever reddening face.

Rare plants and special wildlife, everywhere can be found;
insects and birds of every kind of hue, kingfisher duly crowned;
biffa bins are always over flowing, from one month to the next;
words I spin like a child's top, as the dodgy dossiers sexed.

Now I'm coming towards the end, my PR job well done;
tomorrow is yet another day, and much more will be spun;
fifteen verses of fractured truth, and only time will only tell;
delaying the sound of a lone bell, that tolls the cut's death knell.

The Alternative Canal Laureate

Evan Keel.

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