Kin Ross

Wee Johnathan, with your curly hair –

Your incomplete linguistics.

And Paul, a tool there is no higher –

A face like broken biscuits.


Your shorter than your brother John,

And generally more insipid.

But at least your sycophancy knows it’s bounds

Unlike the yes-boy you grew up with.


In the name of the father and the BBC,

He throws praise about like jelly.

And presumably part of the idea

Is that we suck it all in merrily.


Witness to a funny man

Stroke egos of detached buffoons

Audience avoid thought

Gain unknown pleasure –

Lose soul.


Give me back Paul, the irritating little cunt.

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