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A Sticky End
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....and so it begins
In days of old, when nights were cold and gentlemen drank whisky
Some tales were told of tinctures sold to make a fellow frisky
The ladies set to tinkering with what went in the mix
They wanted to surprise their men (really just for kicks)
Now, one such brew, called "How d'Ye Do", was prized above all others
For making weak men unafraid but ruining their mothers
The brew was noxious, green, and burly
                                                                              and surely quite undrinkable
You might get some at Wetherspoons - elsewhere would be unthinkable
Well, one brave lad named Galahad had never had a gal.
Not a Kathy or a Justine, not a Karen, Clare or Val
"Oh woe is me, I'll never be a proper man!", he'd wail
(Perpetually virginal and literal epic fail)
So he rode forth one fatal day, with bottles of this potion
So he rode forth one fatal day, with bottles of this potion
(sorry, unintended repeat there...)
He sold it countrywide; it needed no promotion
[Rosie] Might he have marketed it instead?
(Raak) Yeah, OK. Better rhythm.
He plied the folk from Kent to Stoke with samples of his brew
And, no mistake, left in his wake was plenty "How d'Ye Do"
The Potters and the Kentish Men found all their cares had flown
And not just that, it seemed that several other things had grown
For hops, it seemed, grew everywhere, even in his garden
From these he brewed some dreadful stuff and sent it to Bin Laden.
To his flat in Abbottabad the package was delivered
It smelled like the bottom of a goat and feverishly quivered.
Bin Laden, macho to a fault, knocked it back in one
The effects were pretty instant, and sent him "on the run"
Up in the sky, where the CIA had their satellite
The 'strains' of his discomfort were transmitted, byte by byte.
We have him, he has got the shakes, the spies said with much glee
So they targeted a drone on his outside WC.
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