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.