Nobody, who’s anyone, is funny anymore,
The people one respects aren’t raving perverts,
They don’t drink gin all day,
And they only write to bore,
Nor are they Roman Catholic converts.
Nobody, who’s anyone, is loony anymore,
Oh wherefore art thou shaggers and fighters?
Nobody, it seems, is very much like Evelyn Waugh,
Nobody, it seems, has anything to say.
Peter Hitchens makes predictions,
But has no fruity predilections,
Oh where are the creators who find living is a chore,
So spice it up with wild addictions?
Why do I feel it is best to ignore
The witterings and twitterings
Of modern day writers?
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