Emission Control

Don’t ask why this poem is included, I have no idea, apart from

me thinking it was very funny.

Emission Control (we have a problem)

Have you heard the latest craze,
From our bureaucratic maze,
Where brains and common sense have been divorced.
And the gist of the idea,
Concerns a quite irrational fear,
On the emanation from a cow’s exhaust.

Yes, methane is the greatest part,
Of each and every bovine fart,
And it eats the ozone in the atmosphere.
So the years have taken toll,
With an ever widening hole,
And to blame is each and every well fed steer.

I s’pose each year a team would come,
To put a gauge in each cow’s bum,
And depending on just how the dials are read,
An expert then could say,
How much you had to pay,
Averaged out to so much tax per head.

There’d be an international crew
Sent out to sample every gnu,
Each antelope that swarms across the plain,
With perhaps a special grant
To reach the lofty elephant,
How to keep them still would tax the brain.

And do you think the day would come
When there’s a tax on every bum,
And the blokes who live on greens pay double price.
For if you use the po,
Under the law you’ll have to go,
To be fitted with a technical device.

When it’s anonymity you seek,
For you have caused a frightful reek,
But calmly just ignore your neighbour’s stare.
Then it is that ancient art,
Known as “the surreptitious fart”
That will perish in the public spotlight’s glare.

As well as “crikey” and “Oh Phew”
You’ll have the pong police on you,
Attracted by your methane sensor’s squawk.
And if you can’t, or will not pay,
You will go that very day
To be fitted with a sort of champagne cork.

Then you would walk a little queer,
And some blokes might call you “dear”
Perhaps you’d even find that you were stalked.
Then how your teeth would grind,
As you say, “No, I’m not that kind,
I’m just another farter who’s been corked.”

What a stigma it would be,
And how you’d save till you were free,
And keep an eye on what went on your plate;
For if you hanker after beans,
Or like a cow, just live on greens,
It’s noxious methane you will then create.

These greenhouse gasses, take my tip,
Will give us all the blooming pip,
As the greenies edge us up against the wall.
And I just hope that it is right,
They’re just flying one more kite,
And maybe we won’t see this thing at all.

For the jury’s still out yet,
On will we melt or will we set,
Will we freeze or fry, they simply can’t decide.
And Mother Nature’s pretty slick
At keeping hid what makes her tick,
Even “backroom boys” are mystified.

And the motives are quite sus’
Of those who kick up all the fuss,
And blurt out loads of crap from their retreat.
For they are just poor silly souls,
Who are mistaken in their goals,
And they think they’re going to stop us eating meat.

H. G. Hunter