He'll be bashed to the semblance of suet,
So say the familiars of Fate;
But they don't tell us who is to do it
Or mention the actual date;
Though the lords of the Circus assure us
His voice will be presently mute,
Yet the victim, pronounced moriturus,
Declines to salute.
All colours, from purple to yellow,
The oracles kill him in print,