Hand-banger messed it up again Set his wits adrift Just hanging on by the scruff of his neck Could beat the lot of them at Crufts He always got up in the morning In a church-going medley of sound In a quest for attention In and around Swiss Cottage He aspired to the television Discussed it at length While professing to hate it Muck-raking in his own mind Then rubbing it in your face In the new Victorian park He thought that he could watch the smell of air Thought that he'd found his way again He's waiting to be counted now But I need to repel the fact