(An ode to the BBC by yours truly)
T’was a few nights before Christmas and at BBC
They’d just settled down for a nice cup of tea.
With bone china cups, they chatted so nicely,
Their pinkies raised slightly and oh so politely.
When all of a sudden there arose such a clatter
They blinked and they wondered what on earth was the matter
The Head Mod rushed in, red-faced with alarm
The boss said I say old chap do remain calm.
He took a few breaths and then said the Mod
There’s a salacious email from that nasty old sod!
He’s made accusations, oh what shall we do?
Since that big Savile row we really are in the poo!
If we don’t “fix” this it might cause a confaddle
We’ll be up you know what creek without a paddle.
So the suits put their heads together as one
And wondered and thought about what could be done.
Out comes the brandy and port and cigars
For this called for deep thinking to save one’s Khyber Pass.
Now Thread posts! now Spam posts! Now Edit and Fixit!
On Data! on Branches! on Flag and Delete-it!
Christmas was nigh, there was snow and much ice
And visions of Christmas Pud danced passed their eyes.
A decision was made that’s called passing the buck
To close down the Thorn Tree and with any luck
They could go home for Christmas with no-one the wiser
And just shrug it off with a can of Budweiser.