We can make not a dint, in a heart of all stone flint.
What sort of chap, are we shown by that.
The man’s of ill repute, nothing there to dispute.
Why not now apologise and from the ashes rise.
Blow, blow hot air all day, see the knowledge on display.
Only skill learned from a bovine artist’s course, was how to fart through a big bored exhaust.
