I’ve heard a ditty from a little bird,
He knows a poorly functionnaire,
Who he keeps a small consultant heard,
In his John Monnet lair.
He girds them with a silver bell ,
From EC money wrought.
He does not treat them very well,
But they’ve been sold and bought.
So they never raise a murmur yet,
Gainst the wicked wicked waste.
Their feet are in the pig trough set,
And to leave it there’s no haste.
He has a programme, dear and vast,
To stroke his ego, large and great.
To make his progress very fast,
and get a job in his home state.
They tend it for him day and night
so he can spend his time away.
But he keeps his workload very light,
And quibbles on their pay.
The Commercial world new frontiers rise,
and ensures that he, just never fails.
For risks in his domain, do not surprise,
As in the front!, he follows; On their coat tails.
When the accolades at last do come,
And noble functionaries they’re backs do slap.
The Press corps makes the lines to hum,
So great honours upon their shores do lap.
But the lowly Consultant, we cannot see,
for the fickle lord no praise will spare.
Its his idea now, We did pay the fee,
and he functions; not to glory share.