Monet's water lilies likewise.

SANTA CLAUS

I do not like you, Santa Claus,
The way you make the reindeer work
And all the elves, and just because
You're such a narcissistic jerk.

Ho ho ho! Yeah, right. That's great.
You're quite the paragon of cheer.
By Christmas, though, it's just too late.
Santa, where've you been all year?

You do not seem to give a hoot
About the world in, let's say, May.
On Christmas Eve you don your suit,
But then you're gone by Christmas Day.

So Santa, I see through your shtick.
You're just a show-off egotist.
The truth is that you make me sick.
It's almost like you don't exist!

Oh, I like the water lilies. What about almost anything by Gaugin.

It doesn't matter if you like them, John. They can survive your poetic attack upon them just fine. I like them too and wouldn't mind reading your poem lampooning them.

Would anyone dare to suggest... Princess Diana?
(Notice the non-committal phrasing ;))

I feel a song coming on. But not, as it turns out, about Princess Di. I realise Americans will be all at sea here, but there is enough internal evidence, I hope, to make the ditty work even for them. Pictures of S. Broad may be found on the internet. The man who would not kick him out of bed is the dishevelled Speccie journalist, Rod Liddle.


Against the Grain

We Ladies all with one accord
Combine in praise of Stuart Broad.
And there are men, it must be said,
Who would not kick him out of bed.
So tall, so blonde, with skin so fair
A baby’s bottom shows more hair,
And eyes of such cerulean
You’d drown yourself in either one.
And yet. And yet I do confess
There’s scarce a man I fancy less.
Such lack of music in the squeals
Of those re-iterant appeals,
So petulant the red-lipped mouth
When the appeals are going south.
Matt Prior’s the man I long to date.
God bless his beard and balding pate.

But not, as it turns out, about Princess Di. I realise Americans will be all at sea here, but there is enough internal evidence, I hope, to make the ditty work even for them. Pictures of S. Broad may be found on the internet. The man who would not kick him out of bed is the dishevelled Speccie journalist, Rod Liddle.


Against the Grain

We Ladies all with one accord
Combine in praise of Stuart Broad.
And there are men, it must be said,
Who would not kick him out of bed.
So tall, so blonde, with skin so fair
A baby’s bottom shows more hair,
And eyes of such cerulean
You’d drown yourself in either one.
And yet. And yet I do confess
There’s scarce a man I fancy less.
Such lack of music in the squeals
Of those re-iterant appeals,
So petulant the red-lipped mouth
When the appeals are going south.
Matt Prior’s the man I long to date.
God bless his beard and balding pate.

And yet. And yet I do confess
 

Sounds like a winner to me, John. I especially like this couplet and the rest:

And yet. And yet I do confess
There’s scarce a man I fancy less.
Such lack of music in the squeals
Of those re-iterant appeals,
So petulant the red-lipped mouth
When the appeals are going south.
Matt Prior’s the man I long to date.
God bless his beard and balding pate.

My list of the absurdly overrated
Began quite modestly with Posh and Becks,
But then the roster steadily inflated,
Incorporating Wii and tantric sex,
Psychology, Manhattan, haut-cuisine,
The Oscars, botox, biking, chardonnay,
Tchaikovsky, pandas, planking, Wittgenstein,
Blogging, vlogging, salad, anime,
Flashmobs, Gaga, iphones, spray-on-tans,
Sat-nav, roses, hot tubs, shopping, spring,
Religion, Sartre, picnics, comic sans,
Cold fusion, Bauhaus, meta-anything.
Then as the list grew so alarmingly,
I scrambled hard to find a stopping-place
And if I hadn’t happened, next, on me
I might have finished off the human race.

Frank

Way to go, Frank. You've got to kill them all.