The vacuum cleaner in the cupboard,
The fridge with the discordant hum,
The blackboard, dusty and un-rubbered,
All have reached their Kingdom Come.
The cartridge pen, the nubile nib,
Men with pipes and other puffers,
The banger, jumping jack and squib,
All of them have hit The Buffers.
Walkmans and their slim cassettes,
The corner butcher, grocer, baker,
The graduates who've paid their debts,
All of them have Met Their Maker.
And now it's Windows 98,
Like the ounce, the stone, the ancient lb,
Or goods on tick, or on the slate,
All in their Happy Hunting Ground.
The language sends you round the bend,
Although John Prescott, incandescent,
Is shortly for The Bitter End.