There are no bats,
I’d know if there were.
I looked in the attic,
I looked in the attic,
And under the stair.
I know what to look for:
They’re big, with red eyes,
I know I’d have seen them,
There’s only dead flies.
I need a bat survey,
Heaven knows why.
The council are idiots
And I’m sure that they’re sly.
There’s some sort of agenda,
You bat people, it’s clear,
Are in league with the planners,
The Daily Mail gives a steer.
I must commission a survey,
I will, with bad grace,
And I’ll pay your invoice,
At a snail’s pace.
You stand on my property,
With your gadgets and things.
It’s all stuff and nonsense,
There’s nothing here with wings.
For there’s no bats at all.
What’s that that you say?
Four species roosting?
Can’t be true - no way!
Those things are bats,
Coming out of my roof?
I thought they were moths.
That’s God’s honest truth.
So how can we kill them,
And make them go away?
They’re not part of my plans
So they cannot stay.
A license you say,
And create a new roost?
I’m writing to the Telegraph,
To give their circulation a boost.
For there are no bats,
Whatever you say.
My convenience matters,
And I’ll find a way…
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