...who is not actually dead. Don't write in.
No doubt you've been following the year-long Urban Decay that's been going on over Jo Blogs' way (and if you haven't, do. You'll be entertained. Unless you love Keith, in which case I'll be entertained). Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, I was unable to make it to Keith's final farewell, where the last shards of his most recent musical output were to be ceremonially flushed. But, just like a country singer, I didn't want the occasion to slip by without putting pen to paper and hacking out some poignant, if totally unnecessary, words:
What can I say 'bout a bloke named Keith?
With his foil-streaked hair and his perfect teeth,
With his gin-soaked life
And his skinny useless wife
And a catalogue of whining twangy piffle to bequeath?
Oh, what can I offer such a fellow as our Keith?
For I can't attend his funeral and I can't afford a wreath.
But I can jot this epithet
On a dirty serviette
And say "Adios, you boring twat. I'll see you Underneath".