The car carried us crazily cross moors
From Lancs to Yorks to Lincs. Immingham docks
And oil refinery the place, the cause
A need to find out about huge oil stocks
That big boats carry crudely. Our man clocks
What comes in and, refined, goes out to sea
He peeps at pipes. Perhaps he'll pull their socks
Up if they've not done - and paid - their duty
Which England expects, her economy
Kept in the black by black gold tax, her shores
Kept afloat by assuring well-kept books
Brooking no shortfalls. All's well, or maybe
Oil's well that ends well. They'll follow tax laws
They would attack without a taxman's knocks
Fri 23 Nov 2007
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