From BBC to BBT
All of my life I turned to the Beeb
When living in Spain or in Ireland
It’s to them I turned for the truth
Straight talking, fearsome, implacable.
But Boris has come and he’s conquered
Cut off their balls like a steer
The staff now singing on cue
Like castrati high up in the choir.
The British Broadcasting Tories
Will only face questions they’ve posed
To avoid embarrassment daily
Around their disastrous strategies.
It’s a terrible sight to behold
It’s a terrible hymn to endure
From journos whose reporting was once
Respected by friends and by foes.
.
What now with the old wine sacks
That have lost their shape and their purpose?
Turn over the channel and listen to Sky
Til a change in Government rescues them.
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