If you give me your attention I will tell you what I am
I'm a genuine spin-doctor for all other kinds are sham.
Each slip in pledged sincerity, each "pretty straight" defect
In my sainted party leader I'd explain but not correct.
To all his worst mendacities I'd try to close men's eyes
And shabby schemes to crush all his inquisitors devise;
I sneer at fellow-journalists - I twist them all I can -
And everybody says I'm such an odious little man!
                     And I can't think why!

To evidence of forgery I simply wont reply,
And intelligence once sexed-up, I brazenly stand by;
Investigative stories I am sure to mispresent
And telling tales of bias it's my talent to invent.
I know every MP's skeletons and where they're buried too
And their threatened exhumation
                                     is a thought we could review,
Yet however I encourage them, with each improving plan,
Still everybody says I'm such an odious little man!
                    And I can't think why!

I'm certainly no Washington; I'm as slipp'ry as can be;
Inquiries find me ready with evasive repartee;
With well-simulated anger,
                                 wrong is switched to right instead,
With the threat of missing weapons
                                           claimed to justify the dead;
To every good man's prejudice I'll claim a thing or three;
And a doctor's trashed career I'll blame on the BBC;
But though I try to make our gang as pleasing as I can
Yet everybody says that we're all odious to a man
                    And I can't think why!

                    He really, really can't think why!

                    (Apologies to W. S. Gilbert)