On Yer Bike, Icke

I think I’ve got it clear, now.  I’ll explain

(despite the fluoride fungus in my brain)

the teachings of the Profit (sorry --Prophet),

and, Gentle Reader, please don’t yell “Come off it!”

-- at least until you’ve heard me out.  He’s Holy

(like John Paul Two, was chosen as a goalie).

Just think of all the benefits he’s brung us --

like packs of saurocidal stomach fungus!

There’s Uncle Remus, and there’s Uncle Fester:

some come from Nazareth, and some from Leicester,

with parables of loaves and fishes, or

the Vanity of Human Wishes, for

we need to know of Evil, learn its scope,

the masks it wears (for instance, there’s Bob Hope).

We’re not naïve enough to stop at comics

(see: “London School of Evil Economics”!)

America and England are alike,

but they got David Koresh.  David Icke

is lighter stuff, not immolation-size.

Instead of toting guns, he sports turquoise.

 

But David, what of Linda?  Debbie?  Pam?

You are the Godhead, you’re the great “I Am”,

and every Alpha (Getty, Gandhi, Gotti)

must have his team of adulating totty:

if through derision’s mire you have to drag ‘em,

can you do nothing nobler, Lord, than shag ‘em?

Yet, who am I?  You have the Inner Sight.

I bow to you.  You knew New Right was right.

You said, “Redress Red Dress”.  I’m so impressed!

But, lest your visions fester, unaddressed …

 

The Queen’s a lizard.  I’m not quite convinced.

Let’s leave all holds unbarred, all words unminced:

you placed yourself securely in the pillory

by numbering as lizards, Bill and Hillary

(they’re snakes, in fact).  You told us Planet Earth

would end in ninety-seven.  Oh, what mirth!

What if your dire prediction never unfurled?

Don’t worry, Dave -- it’s not the end of the world.

Another one of yours that made us merry --

the hurricane that didn’t devastate Derry.

It was -- forgive the pun -- a total blast!

(The Hurricane was really in Belfast.)

Your reading of the runes is really risible:

New Zealand disappeared?  (When was it visible?)

The place you’ve chosen, David, to abide

is where you’ve taken us.  Its name is Ryde.

 

Author's Note

For anyone who might not be aware, Englishman David Icke (the surname rhymes with "take a hike") has announced to the world that (a) he is the Son of God and (b) a race of evil lizards are taking control of the planet, disguising themselves as the British queen and Bob Hope, among others.
On yer bike -- vernacular English expression, meaning "get outta here"
fluoride fungus -- Icke says that the lizards are turning us into drooling slobs by poisoning us with fungii, surreptitously introduced into our drinking-water
goalie -- both Icke and the last pope but two were soccer goalkeepers in their day
turquoise -- Icke went through a phase of wearing turquoise-colored clothing, because apparently it radiates positive energy
Linda/Debbie/Pam -- assorted wives and paramours of the Son of God
Red Dress -- Icke has a problem with red dresses ... I forget why
Ryde -- the town where the Godhead lives is named (appropriately) Ryde