Con ye the masses
Con ye the crowds
Con ye the A-listers in the Twitter-cloud
Nothing means anything
All stands are the same
If you make it rhyme
It's all just a game.
Sporting a red hat
signed by the head rat
Assert freedom of thought
Pre-empt critics, what you got?
Between hatters and haters
loyal fans and a seeya-laters
Being all things to everyone
Just an empty cup of weak tea
When the wars shall this generation waste,
Thy ruins remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
"Booty is truth, truth booty," – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
(with apologies to Keats)