(with great deference to the Bard of Brisbane, Kevin Bllody Wilson)

Whinge, whinge, fucking whinge.  Whinge and fucking bleat.

“Take Your Marks, you cynics, for the next Olympic heat.

You’ll not need to train for years in order to compete,

So On Your Marks, you cynics, for the Freestyle Whinge and Bleat.

I hate the fucking guts of the fucking Corporates

Who ply their trade so blatantly while we take all the cuts.

I might go down the pub for a can or two of Bud

And watch it on their 50 inch – my Sony’s not too good.

Whinge….

There’s not a man alive that can run in 9.5

The stop-watch man’s been paid to show the time displayed.

They must think we are mugs cos they’re  all on fucking drugs.

Just see?! That cheating bastard now is drinking Lucozade.

Whinge….

And then the BBC with its fucking commentary

Of Piper and her fucking horse who come from Daventry

“A plucky Brit” we’re told, who has just missed out on gold

Shit a brick!  You bastards – cos my Big Mac’s now gone cold!

Whinge….

Whinge, whinge fucking whinge.  Whinge and fucking bleat.

My pleasure is inverted cos I hope the Brits get beat.

I’ve nailed my colours to my mast in all my posts and tweets

So shove your five rings up your arse.  Whinge and fucking bleat.