"Fareweel for a day, oor London hame,
Fareweel oor spinmeisters hoary!"
Fareweel ev'n tae the concept o' shame:
"Honest guv, I'm awfy sorry!"
Now Broon sinks deeper in quicksand,
Wi' every desperate gyration!
Nae tactic too low or underhand,
For this farcical joke o' the nation!
What coarse new bile do they now brew,
Wi' their new set o' spinning sages?
While the moral compass drifts askew,
Common decency disengages.
Some token regret they feebly feign,
Tae mask their degradation;
But weasel words can't shift the stain,
On this farcical joke o' the nation!
O wooden Broon, there's jist no way,
Your "apology" will quell us;
In Hell we'll see a snowy winters day,
Ere Labour ditch their smears libellous.
Broon girns an' glowers wi' fizzog sour,
Mumblin' his latest rotation;
But he's caught an' bowled by spin uncontrolled,
Jist the farcical joke o' the nation!