Epitaph
keen listener to stuff on Radio Four,
considerer of various vying views
who lapped them up and then would ask for more.
When moonshine cast its glow on plunging banks
and sharks swam close in tight liquidity
he was among the serried ranks
who scanned the daily papers with avidity.
He followed trails of butchery and greed
of generals and presidents abroad,
aghast in turn at every shameful deed
and full of rage at every loathsome toad.
As Arabs sprang against their servile lot
and posh gents showed their dirty feet of clay
and oligarchs concealed their fiendish plot
he was wrapped up in the radio thrice a day.
Those holding forth upon the passing scene
would fashion pithy soundbites by the score.
They even made a quip about the queen
that shook our loyal listener to the core.
The soundbites now assailed him thick and fast;
The rabid pack of journos had him penned
And so, alas, our hero fell at last,
Laid low, soundbit by newshounds in the end.
