Dear BBC,
As independent as a suckling pig.
Your teat milking that pestilent swine
With pint in hand and back in time.
Snugly sipping tainted trickles
From swollen, purple-painted mammary,
Nigel laughs and casts us back
To where the world would want the past.
The other piglets squeal and die,
The green one's cold, the nipple dry.
The other, jaundiced, yet to pass
But still the cries are heard en masse.
The future's plain, the path laid bare,
As blue and red still curse the air
And purple jolts a sickly shiver.
The green pig shakes and the young ones quiver.
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