A paeon to a turd
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Clunking Paw—
For he's the ten-year Chancellor who taxes more and more.
He's the bafflement of Tyneside North, he’s Darlington’s despair:
For when they’re sacked or briefed against—Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
He's broken every golden rule—he breaks the law of amity.
His off balance sheet accounting would make Robert Maxell stare,
But when you open up the books—Macavity's not there!
You may search the whole Smith Institute, or the Cash-for-Honours affair—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Macavity's a peculiar cat—he's full of tricks and wiles.
He mutters and he mumbles and he hardly ever smiles.
He scarcely talks to colleagues, his head is highly domed
His suit is dusty from neglect, his hair is all uncombed.
He juts his jaw from side to side; he never can relax.
Except when he is planning to impose his hundredth tax.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a grudge in human form, a monster of depravity.
He won’t support tuition fees; he won’t back Tony Blair.
And as for foundation hospitals—well, Macavity's not there!
The Cabinet is stuck with him. (It’s said they live in fear.)
And he gives his Budget to the House exactly once a year.
But when defence is looted, or the pension funds are rifled,
Or the tax credits go missing, or John Hutton is found stifled,
Or a greenhouse gas is rising, and Lord Turnbull in despair—
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And if he doesn’t like you, then you know that, without fail
You’ll wake up to nasty briefings printed in the Daily Mail.
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the civil service say:
"It must have been Macavity!"—but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him brooding, or a-chewing of his hand
As he works out how exactly to get rid of Miliband.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
He’s doesn’t care for social grace; he’s short on charm and suavity.
He always has an alibi, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the leak took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all his colleagues who hold his name in dread
(I might mention Norwich South; I might mention Birkenhead.)
Are nothing more than ciphers for the Cat who never lacks
An excuse to raise some revenue: the Napoleon of Tax!
That's right: it's about the Gobblin' King, who has taken all your money to the Gobblin' City at the centre of his labyrinthine tax policies.
UPDATE: thanks to the commenter who pointed out that The Hitch has another fantastic version...