Last night in our old people's home,
Doped up to sleep, no longer to roam
From bed to bog on our zimmer frames,
Or playing life-lengthening cognitive games,
We dreamt of James Blunt and his smug, gormless smile
And his best-selling album, so terminally vile.
The nasty young man so incredibly hyped,
That his number one album was constantly piped.
So that we wished for a quick, painless death,
Or maybe transferred to a home for the deaf.
At a quarter past seven our dreams went away.
Sweet nothing took over until the next day.
But the bastards in white shook us and woke us
For Streisand and Gibb in soft light and soft focus.