They say no beast is half as vile
As Crocky-Wock, the crocodile -
But weigh the claims of Ali Campbell,
Whose 'gator's grief is more than ample.
On Sunday morn he best can squeeze
His eyelids in a teary tease,
And he especially employs
A breathless pause to test our poise.
He smeared reports, so we should not
Believe those tales, which showed as rot
The sexy yarns of weapons rare -
So rare it seems they were not there.
With this what goes supremely well,
Is honour's gasps of breath, that swell,
To show us that his strange distress,
Outweighs his master's wickedness -
At least that's Ali's point of view;
And he should know. He's spun a few.

That's all for now. It's time for church,
And pray truth's not left in the lurch.
Hush, hush. Listen. What's that we hear,
"Invade Iran!" - and drawing near?

Shut down the airports, block the docks,
Put Murdoch's media under locks
And keep that messianic gleam
In padded cell far from our screen -
The shining teeth, the phoney smile,
The 'gator's boss - the Crocodile!

                    (Apologies to Roald Dahl)