Falling Stars

So Vic and Bob return, missing only cap and bells,
to puncture modern royalty's self-importance.
Theirs is not the only bladder leaking air:
who could fail to be in on the joke?
Will we accept silliness as satire
this time around?

Will Ulrika-ka-ka-catch the whiff of misogynism?
Or will the smell of Reeves and Mortimer
be as rank as the reek of Charlie Drake
on his return from oblivion.
The idiot box's appetite is fickle,
many have found.

You can quote Derrida or deconstruct all you like,
but a frying pan or hammer blow is still
slapstick; a parody or pastiche is not
possible of such things as quiz shows.
Flogging a dead horse has never earned
a single pound.