As on the morning of the bash his position not assumed

But compromised by spew bursted across the news G spot:

BBC’s Weather Office took a sedentary view

Saved him, his job strung out on isobars, from houshold scrap

Another iteration of his competence forthwith

(Like other cover stories covered heretofore were played

Oafs and buffoons in uplighting to shine their best aspect

Whose pantomimes hereafter entertain our merry flock)

This weather guy made headlines too among the daily pap

His sentinel-like post he’d marred by premature concieving

His straight and narrow dusted, leaning over a glowing amp

A microphone yet eavesdropped was still broadcasting

Cusses and swearing from the fresh faced Anchor gaily flew

Tore through the radioed shipping lanes of ornamental chat

Bog standard normal till that time the currency on air

Burst in on and erupted were the cotton-candy vibes

Again here is this weather-wiseguy awkwardly exposed

All naked to pursuit of entertainment-dabbling crowds,

Whose time falls spooned out leisurely on heavy afternoons

Their wits shaken and stirred, and sheer bejazzled by fair bling

Gone everyday sedate surround urbanity.

Up woken? No, no, not at all! His blessed expletives threw

An amazing glittering fish to bauble-fascinated seals

Honk, honk! The ears rear clustering.

Two accidents, two hanging job offences

One once, and not long since, should have immersed him spitted whole

On squally wintry showers outside the local labour queue

P45, no references, taken a sorry hit.

Celerity has never been a software open source

Feature for minds on sofas strapped to gossip’s TV cart

(TV’s become the smarter in the couchant family)

No dock, no damage limitation on his acre needed

Indeed and on the contrary this Mr Weather face

By viral feed celebrity was impudently cried

And elevated, celebrated, and served a welcome slug

Of heady happenstance divine among the groves

Groves dully grooved, sad, samey, amid incident disaray

Borders, boundaries overgrowing, have run out all to seed

Tentacular wastelands wrangling up blott out all further view

The Standard public forms, decorums, turned to dust, interred

Eroded, decomposed, a splintered stump, stock still, stuck up

And single makes a protest, says: ‘Alas, I once was here’

Beneath it scratched in dirts a curtly scribbled answer sighs:

Sickness is near.