As, unenlightened what to write about,
I’m waiting for the muse (like Lou’s old song),
Distracted by the fact I’m making out
From fat guy’s flat below that arsehole on
TV, a Mr Norton, caught in schlong
Gags too often, softened, auditioning
Those maybe Josephs. Lloyd-Webber, it’s wrong.
God save me from belaboured bellowing
And cruel Cowell, last year’s flavouring.
Vote for the worst has burst like rain on drought,
And now the tune-free crooner sees no gong,
But hears applause, though he’s nauseating.
It keeps on coming, dumbing down-and-out.
All quiet! Now I’ll write my sonnet. BONG!!!!!
Sat 21 Apr 2007
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