Oh Stuart! Your bags of coal will soon make diamonds,
With grinding teeth and eyes to cleave the highlands,
A field of ponies gallops through your core,
Not one trick, two tricks, three – but many more!
Oh Baggs! Transmuting beast of the saccharine table,
We’ll mourn for you like one forgotten fable:
A swollen fish confined to a molten bowl,
Where, flapping with the brimstone of your soul,
You tricked and grabbed and stowed what you had won,
In baggy hamsters’ cheeks for number one.
For even faced with sore humility,
You marched ahead with extreme masculinity,
So Baggs, now gone, we’ll weep for your good-bye,
And leave you with your not-so-humble pie,
But pray, with gentle eyes hold out your hand,
And promptly stamp the fuckers with your brand.