Lament to the BBC

Dear BBC,
As independent as a suckling pig.
Your teat milking that pestilent swine
With pint in hand and back in time.

Snugly sipping tainted trickles
From swollen, purple-painted mammary,
Nigel laughs and casts us back
To where the world would want the past.

The other piglets squeal and die,
The green one's cold, the nipple dry.
The other, jaundiced, yet to pass
But still the cries are heard en masse.

The future's plain, the path laid bare,
As blue and red still curse the air
And purple jolts a sickly shiver.
The green pig shakes and the young ones quiver.

Mad Cow Disease

On the brink, we eat, we sink,
The billion burst their seams.
A billion more barely think
Of steak and chips but dream.

The sounds of chomping mouths surround
The West, now East some too.
From East to West the clouds caress
And choke the lands of food.

The cargo sails without the wind,
The wind carries poisoned spit.
The acid burns, the trees are lit,
The soya sprawls, the cows roam through.

No room for crops, no need to muse,
Grasses stomped by ruminant hooves.
The sand encroaches, land consumed,
The forests croak, their patrons doomed.