Kapoor show sir, is what I say,
your orbit spider wends its way
to Heaven but like Icarus,
burns up and droops acephalous.
Boris loves it, poor man-boob slob,
and sings its praises, that's his job,
and so the phallic cage will rise,
delighting ladies with its size.
We know spirals are delightful,
but your twists and turns are frightful,
a parody of Coubertin's
rings, those conjoined Olympic quins.
I can see Charles, in the Palace,
come out swinging with his phallus
to condemn in stuttering words
your tangled heap of metal turds.
You should go catch a falling star
and build a Babel less bizarre,
more like a swaying bamboo shoot
and not that ugly Mandrake root.
Money is the name of the game
but Brits like to apportion blame,
so pray that they'll all be jolly,
dancing round your ruddy folly.