[from: "Sixteen Nights of Violent Orgasm With The Masters of English Literature"]
T.S. Eliot tuned the radio, couldn't get rid of the static:
Serves him right for being so fucking enigmatic.
T.S. Eliot fixed his motor car, snapped the clutch cable -
Betcha my youngest daughter could drink him under the table.

T.S. Eliot lost his wallet when he went into town;
Serves him right for hanging round with the likes of Ezra Pound.
T.S. Eliot thinks he's famous because he is a genius -
But don't cha know I'm ambivalent about the modernist achievement.