Oh, wow, look –
glossy sponsors’ logos glow from forty foot gobos
from Romford to Croydon to Pontoon Dock.
No go for dogs or cowboys.
So fond of sports: to trot, to shoot, hop-scotch, golf.
Who to root for: GB bods or jocks from Togo, Oslo, Congo?
No odd jobs for Bow-born gyro boys.
No, LOCOG only kowtows to posh knobs –
tycoons who syphon stocks from boomtowns.
O proctors of gloom
known for PR boobs!
O floppy clowns
too good to spoof!
LOCOG control food.
No cod, no pork.
Only blotchy lollypops or – John Dory.
On London rooftops
spooks prowl for throngs of rowdy schoolboys,
troops bombproof blocks of condos, look for ghosts;
PC Plod from Norfolk growls.
Lofty LOCOG do polls, do vox pop,
knock on doors of common London folk –
“Rococo morons!” mocks Jo.
“Bossy Cyborg dolts!” scoffs Bob.
“Gosh – who?”
LOCOG borrows dosh, croons soppy songs
to dodgy corps who do no good, only wrong –
“Sponsor John, sponsor hotshot Johnny, sponsor doorknobs.
Sponsor pylons, pythons, schoolbooks, thongs.
Sponsor Morocco, body odor, hymnbooks, sponsor two o’clock.”
LOCOG’s torch wows crowds from Oxford to Bolton.
Convoy of sponsors’ motors follows: Lloyds, Dow, Mondo.
Only fools cross LOCOG.
LOCOG chloroforms Goths, hobos, cocky non-conforms.
LOCOG co-opts groovy folk for costly lowbrow jolly.
LOCOG concocts horror show cons. O London’s folly.
No gold, no oomph to shop.
No bloody trophy.