(after Horace, Epode XIII, Horrida tempestas)
Listen up now lads, there’s a storm brewing,
the rain clouds are gathering over our heads as I speak,
rumours are rife, the bosses are in little huddles,
nothing for it but to get another round in
and try to drown our sorrows while we can still afford it.
Short time’s on the cards, it’s up to God and Providence
to get us out of this mess, so drink up.
Come on then, who’ll give us a tune on the old Joanna,
help to cheer us all up a bit?
I know he’s a Job’s Comforter, but according to Martin,
apprenticeships don’t count, we’re about to be fed to the lions;
now’s the time we’ll be wishing we’d stuck in at school
and got some decent qualifications for ourselves;
everyone here is listed for severance,
our weak spot is not having the right bits of paper,
we’re virtually unemployable by anyone else.
Cheers lads, tilt your glasses, it numbs the pain.