The Shambling Corpse of Portland Place
A grand old aunt in a moth-eaten gown, With a digital halo and a velvet frown. She sits on a throne of crumbling stone, Clutching a licence fee like a weathered bone.
One eye is glass, fixed on the past, While the other blinks wild at the "podcasting" cast. She’s stitched her skin with a thousand threads, Of impartiality—which she views with dread.
She speaks in a whisper of "National Pride," While tucking her scandals deep down inside. She’s cut off her toes to save on the rent, Then wonders where all of the viewership went.
She feasts on nostalgia and lukewarm tea, Burping out reruns of ’73. A bloated, gray bird in a gilded cage, Screaming "Relevant!" at a digital age.
But the rot is more deep than a dusty old shelf, As she pays out the thousands to cover herself. Recall the news anchor, the voice of the state, Whose WhatsApp messages sealed his own fate. With a "naughty" request and a sum to the young, The hero’s great bell has finally been rung.
She scrubbed at the stains with a panicked routine, While Strictly’s dark shadows emerged from the scene. With boots in the ballroom and "toxic" regimes, She’s trampling the glitter of everyone’s dreams.
She’s half-Tory suit, half-liberal scarf, A sight to make even the newsreaders barf. A Spinal Tap corpse with the volume on high, Exploding on stage while she tries not to die. Grotesque? It’s a horror, a twelve out of ten, As she bleeds out her budget and asks for a pen.
She’ll charge you for breathing, she’ll charge you for air, While Huw and the dancers go down in a flare. She’s a sinking Titanic with a disco ball light, Going down screaming, "We’re doing it right!"
