AFTERTHOUGHT
The Socialists
JOHN WELLS
In a new pre-election pamphlet published by the Conservative Party Central Office, The Man, his Myth and his Magic, various distinguished Tories have drawn attention to the dark and mysterious powers which many believe can still upset the logical balance of probabilities at the next general election. From the Cover picture, which shows an artist's impression of the incarnation of evil, to the final list of Conservative businessmen who have contributed to the cost of this very original venture in publishing, The Man, his Myth and his Magic is not for the squeamish. Details of Socialist initiation rites never before revealed, case-histories of astonishing feats of magic and illusion. authenticated accounts of bizarre left wing rituals resulting in mass murder, rape and auto-hypnotic trances make this expensively
produced 'Dictionary of Daemonic Despot- ism' a must for every Tory household.
The poem printed below, a rare survival from the age of superstition and still chanted in unison at meetings of the 1922 Com- mittee, gives an indication of the pamphlet's power to evoke the irrational terror of civilised men for 'things that go bump in the night'.
Up the airy mountain Down the rushy glen We daren't go-a-canvassing For fear of Little Men; Wee folk, good folk, Apparently perfectly nice Red rosette, cloth cap They'll have you in a trice.
Down by the seaside On their little trips Eating rock and candy-floss Greasy fish and chips; Don't wear a paper hat Paddling could be rash As much as smile at them and they'll Debag you in a flash.
High on. his Three Nuns
Their Old King sits He is now so old and grey He's nigh lost his wits; On a roar of thunder He flies across the seas From Grosvenor Square to Pentagon The Eminence agrees; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen In his poll-swaying tights.
They stole little Edward's Clothes away When he came to put them on He didn't know what to say They took him to the cleaners Several times a week But even in the Spin-o-Mat He still refused to speak. They have kept him ever since As a pampered pet Believing he's the best Leader they can get.
By the craggy hill-side Through the mosses bare , They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there If any man so daring As dig them up in spite He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain Down the rushy glen We daren't go a-canvassing For fear of little men Wee folk, good folk Damn fine tacos But scratch the little bastard And you'll find he's one of those.
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