inside the grave
where poets, brave
lie undisturbed
their writings curbed
went from the number 51
where he was sitting having fun,
not to the number Fry had pledged
he was at first so tightly wedged
between illustrious company
and liars said they’d set him free
and move him up the scale at speed
to show the Shepherd that indeed
these numbers could be truly fiddled
I wonder if he wept and piddled,
but, struth, the project did not work
and one would feel a real jerk
and little kiddies on the street
found out that liars can be beat
they chanted therefore liar liar
you have your bloody pants on fire.
And Robert Burns hit sixty-four
which in itself can be a bore
it shows that no one can be trusted
and that their empty skulls be busted
their credibility is shattered
but knowing them, it never mattered.