And as fits one so keen to assail
Both the mass and the Mass
With Orwellian class
He's most likely now inside the whale.
His arrows flew straight to the sky
And they fell on the false and the sly
Yet even when plastered
His subjects he mastered
With bottle corked up by the dry.
Though on Bush he was quite out of touch
And on God he protested too much,
Such stuff should be deemed
For the most part redeemed
By his onslaught on Kissinger’s crutch.
And while enemies gathered wholesale,
For he cared not against whom he'd rail,
I humbly submit
He was not such a shit
As his brother who writes for The Mail.
Right now we need more words like Hitch’s
That will scratch in the place where it itches
For if people aren’t strong
When the world thinks them wrong
Tell me who’s left to fight in the ditches?