The Synthetic Symphony of the Plastic King
The stage was set, the studio was booked,
While Keir appeared, completely under-cooked.
No tie in sight, an open-collared vibe,
The worst of stunts to fool a modern tribe.
The BBC was primed to beam the state,
Enabling scripts to manufacture fate.
They built a wall of sound to shield the crime,
Like Spector drowning logic out of time.
And then the clapping seals began to greet,
With hypnotised and synchronised deceit.
A cult for one who lacks all natural grace,
A vacuum preaching from a plastic place.
He stood to sell a dream of hope and light,
A hollow speech to make the darkness bright.
Diversity became a corporate scheme,
A mask to hide a purely cynical theme.
He mixed the progressive with the right-wing fool,
And dumped the Greens and Reform in one pool.
A lazy smear to blur the shifting line,
And force a false, political design.
He balanced virtue on a broken scale,
To hide a platform mediocre and stale.
Abusing Aristotle’s ancient scene,
He crowned his dullness as the Golden Mean.
The words were smooth, the promise was a sham,
As real as meat processed inside a can.
He spoke of true inclusion, well-decreed,
While depth and honesty were made to bleed.
He opened up his mouth to grip the stage,
But Zippy spoke from every single page.
A puppet drone, a nasal, shifting pitch,
Before he flipped a hard, robotic switch.
"EXTERMINATE ALL RIVALS!" beeped the drone,
While useful idiots sustained the tone.
A shameless show of style, completely bare,
The peak of spin delivered by Lord Keir.