Ode: To The Lowest Form Of Life

The Sun is high up in the sky
And brightly doth it shine,
But sparkles in your eye a lie
Far brighter, and malign;
And though the Sun be yellow,
You’re yellower, fellow,
As well as asinine.

The mamba slithers through the grass
Both poisonous and low,
But lower than a mamba’s arse
Does your proboscis grow,
And a mamba’s jaws
Could never cause
Such venom as yours to flow.

The Fleet Street journalist, ’twould seem
Has, in his field, no peer,
He libels people by the ream,
But always sounds sincere;
He’s whiter than white,
Law in his own right,
And master of the smear.

There’s countless people have a claim
To decency appal,
Mass murderers who’ve children slain,
And many a criminal,
But the Fleet Street trash
Are, for my cash,
The lowest of them all.

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