Terror comes in many shapes
In many different sizes:
To all except a jackanapes,
The only real surprise is,
They did not with a firm accord
Subject him to a waterboard.
The mouths of babes and infants speak
In language that is foreign:
Take little girls, who always shriek,
They’re utterly abhorrent.
We lead our country into battle
By confiscating every rattle.
Have I no shape? I have – a bag,
On which all life is based.
My mouth is large, but here’s the drag,
It’s full of tasteless waste.
My name is Spicer, local wit:
No anus, so I’m full of shit.
To say that I can tell the truth
Is down here as a fact:
My boss is from a circus booth,
And I’m the king of tact.
I said he was a genius, I did.
Very wrong – and so misguided.
Click here for a Guardian article