Smiling faces, dancing across the tube,
To music, one cannot fathom or bare,
Perfect, cheeky, faking, image so crude,
Of girlies, naked to ogle and stare,

Cheap'nd grin, a plastic lass from London,
How much are they paid by TV conmen?
Shiny locks of curly brunette, floating,
Costly numbers, trailing the screen, gloating...

A so-called ancient symbol on a ring,
Or maybe a nine carrot pinching sting?
Picking our pockets, of all the small things,
Money refunded, if its damaged, crap, bling...

This version is much better than last years,
The new, improved, S-type Jag, can save you...
Save me? Save me nothing at all, I fear,

Money burned on super-cars, just won't do,
At least, not for a poor sod, broke to tears,
That shitty heap 'will do' for driving to...



.....Intermission.....



'Snowy, square-faced box un-tuned, 
needs a kick I think, can't already, be on the blink...'

Click.

'At last!'
An orange burst, wrecks the wall in a crack,
The man with the camera, jumps way back,
Seven dead, un-lucky for some, odds stacked,
Home for Christmas, I doubt they will be back,
They said this once before, info quite slack,
'Wars going well they'll be back from Iraq'...

Click button sticks, 'I really must get it fixed,
Two hundred pounds, damn that guy, I was tricked!
Perhaps some sticky tape, will mend it yet?
I'll have his throat, just you see, the little get!'...

The truck gathers pace, all covered in lights,
Hol-a-days-a-comin, foreign yankie, shite,
Some fizzy drink in a red tin, calls out,
Santa looks strange, his mouth shaped like a trout...

And so for the weather, always the same,
Down South, it'll be cloudy, up North-rain!
Why do we even bother to watch it?
Where's the button, I've had enough of this sh...

Click.