Beweep the fate of Simon Sheikh,
That upstart A-rab on the make,
Who came on time to Q&A,
Took one look round, and passed away.
It seemed God’s wanton fool mistake
To take so soon sweet Simon Sheikh,
Distorting with his deathward groans
The frozen smile of Tony Jones
And interrupting Greg Combet
Who’d scarce begun to have his say
On how his day-old Carbon Tax
Would cost each punter two bob, max;
And, with his final, heaving sighs
Upstaged the good, the great, the wise,
And each dim question from the dorks,
And even Mirabella’s norks.
He was not dead for long, alas.
He rose, he tottered, passed some gas,
And on a drip in Liverpool
He watched the show, and felt a fool,
Then tweeted, ere an hour had passed,
‘I knew the nation’s love, at last.’
It was, perhaps, his finest hour.
He may not feel again that power
Of absence mourned, of grieved esteem.
It seemed by midnight … but a dream.
And thus we, Primates, well may rue
That hour, now too long overdue,
When, dead as beef, we do not hear
How much, how little, we were held dear,
Before the crematorium fires
Exhale us into upper shires
And our children’s jokes regale
Us into myth ere we set sail,
And then as now with Simon Sheikh
The actors briefly take a break,
The show goes on, they make their bow,
And we are all back numbers now.
Do not pass go; go straight to gaol;
We are but ghosts; let be. Wassail.