Oh dear Vanessa Whitburn, please grant us, please, a boon,
Oh please do kill Tom Archer, and, please to do it soon,
Just pitch him off a silo tower or drop him down a well,
Or choke him with a sausage skin and send him straight to Hell.
Please hush his bratty whinging voice, his tremulous lower lip,
Oh quiet his ever-moaning cries and chuck him on the tip,
Oh crush his chip and burger van, let loose his captive pigs,
And tell them all down at the Bull, it’s time to dance some jigs.
For Tom is dead, hooray, hooray, let all of Am’ cheer loud,
But let’s be kind, let’s send him off in an organic shroud.