Whispers

Just to prove it's not all dark and serious on this blog, here's a frivolous little poem for the weekend...

The other day, behind a tree,
A friend of note, he said to me
That Princess Di was alive and well
In a Nicaraguan prison cell;
Guarded almost day and night
By burly men, some black – most white.
They captured her, in quite a coup,
In a factory where she’d made a shoe.
‘Twas a publicity stunt of sorts
‘Til they gagged the press and shot her escorts.
The workers were paid for their silence and fears,
Largest amount that they’d seen in years!
And when the palace got word they employed a double,
To run the press around and avoid any trouble.
But when the palace got worried that the papers would twig,
Their efforts were doubled – the endeavour was big -
Until sooner, or later, from upstairs it was said
That somewhere, and sometime, someone be made dead.
So they wheeled out these actors for some accident deal,
Then actually killed them so the pictures looked real.
They paid off the assassins with cigars and French beers,
And then paid off the media with the country’s own tears.
So everyone was happy at the end of the tale -
Except maybe 'whatshername' locked up in jail -
And no more of interest was said to unfold,
Plus it’s all gospel truth, so my friend has been told,
But a bigger liar than him you could not hope to meet,
You see, Diana’s okay, she lives on our street.