Our Own Dooms

I'm not impressed by all this rigmarole,
These dummy books, the shilly-shallyings,
Those lords a-leaping and their golden rings,
That clueless tailor, and the pig you stole,
But I was wondering about the mole
Who built a race car out of coloured strings
And filled it up with spanners, spuds, and springs,
Then popped it in his next-door neighbour's hole.

The rest of us are digging our own dooms,
Discoursing endlessly on what we hope,
The colour of our nicest doilies (taupe),
Who manufactured them and on which looms,
And how they make the best of our best rooms.
I need a hook here, and I'd like some rope.