The marvellous mendicant mothers of Mope
worry about weaning their kids off dope.
Haplessly harried they hardly hold hope
of finding an answer that isn’t looped rope!
Round here the rising sun breaks slow the cloud
which builds through the night
– from the fags dark allows,
yet, none of Mopes mistresses notice,
that newly a day is born
– sweet, fresh and proud.
Surely some sapient soul serves to sate
the confusion of questions one’s sure to negate,
in diurnal dialogue done direct and to date…
or so you’d suppose, in most all other states.
Here though, in Mope, the mothers are clear:
we’ll have no free thinking ta! None of that here!
Perish the thought of fresh views or ideas
and hold your big books from coming too near!
The plan goes so simple (it has to it’s true) –
the brideless of Mope know all that they do;
that learning from lessons is theirs to eschew!
Our proliferate pups truly think this their due.
So work on you earners, as hard as you can
Build coin for your country to feed the taxman.
His pennies and coffers are spent
– the grand plan:
Dished out to the mothers
who need what they can!