I still can't get over that lousy conjurer,
All thirty quids' worth of rank incompetence.
It wasn't yesterday. Eleven years since,
Almost to the hour. That slipshod sorcerer,
Butter-fingered wizard … Remember, when
No kids applauded as each trick misfired,
And he didn't notice? Then did it again,
Again, and laughed it off, tittered, perspired,
Wiping his brow, until his grand finale
When the white rabbit shat on his shaking hand,
And made a break for it? Don't shillyshally,
Bunny-boy. Run for it. We'll understand.
You deserve a magician. We all do.
And that fake pencil-line moustache, which fell off?
Don't be like him. Just you be true to you.
Do what you do, my son. It'll be enough.