On Irony

Hello!
A new poem, eulogising the life of an extremely ironic fellow, I'll never forget him. But I can never remember his name. Ironic really.

An Ironic Man
1959-2000

His eyes, poor bugger, his eyes, his eyes,
His eyes had been eaten by moles (which are blind).
His spine, dear bugger, his spine, his spine
Was constructed from the fossilised remains of invertebrates.
(His original spine was lost when he fell on the spine of a large porcupine
Whilst frolicking around in a pine forest.)
His feet couldn’t walk; they were worn out from walking
And nor could he talk; his voice was worn out from talking.
Oh, no, wait. No, a liger tore out his voice box, that was it,
And now his voice box is constructed from a party blower.
Poor bugger, dear bugger, all this from playing silly-buggers,
And insufficient preparation for the Millennium Bug.
Oh yeah, and trying to high-five a liger.
Silly prick.


You can expect a performance video soon enough, possibly of this, possibly of an old classic.
You probably know better than me.

BYE(-winning)