Strictly Waffle by Rob Barratt
It's Saturday night - prime time TV
Britain's got strictly no talent X-factory
The opiate of the watching masses
Tune in to tuneless lads and lasses
And get an overdose of the thing we love most
Piffle-paffle, wiffle waffle ... waffle
Not the waffle from your freezer
Not the waffle - belly pleaser
But read from monitors and sheets
Repeated repeatedly on repeats
And weekday episodes and tweets
The UK's diet for endless weeks
Contestants feature as national freaks
The tabloid headline celebrity geeks
In TV chat mag glossy pics
So addicted viewers get their fix
Of what makes up most of the mix
Waffle
Endless, tireless, ceaseless talk
From a tightly tailored telly dork
It's where entertainment's really at
How did you feel? Talk us through that
Let's look at that clip once again
And again and again and again and again
Here's a funny line for you
Written on my auto-cue
Comment on the other guests
In their seamless, spangly sequinned vests
Dresses on perspiring chests
Who must always keep smiling, lest
They drop their guard and drop to nought
Let's see what the judges thought
A line of wealthy ex-professionals
Pontificate at the confessional
Their egos verging on obsessional
Announce their verdict to the throng
"Beautiful teeth, beautiful song
Beautifully danced, beautifully... wrong"
One pretends to love 'em all
Another one is off-the wall
A Latin expert and ex-pro
In a tightly fitting tuxedo
Camps it up - all for the show
Performers wait for the reaction
And try to hide dissatisfaction
With any faults that have been found
To eliminate them from a round
Presenters act like bits of wood
This makes The Generation Game look good
It's Saturday night. It is the time
Let's face it, this is pantomime
Waffle
Waffle , waffle, waffle, chat
Make it seem as if it's all relevant
Waffle, waffle, waffle, chat
I'm in the room. This is the elephant
The story lines are front page news
Forget the earthquakes and the coups
The revolutions and tsunamis
And countries being run by armies
This is what's important folks
Tearful photos, banter, jokes
It's the drug that keeps them all afloat
A few rich overpaid execs
Make a profit, big fat cheques
The public buy it, though it smells
The people pay, the product sells
Control the music, control the band
Control the minds. Market the bland
Waffle
Regurgitated remakes of sixties classics
Attempted Whitney Houston vocal acrobatics
A guaranteed Christmas Number 1
Stage-managed waffle to egg them on
Singer-songwriters, where have they gone?
Sacrificed on the altar of waffle
Waffle on, waffle over
Waffle through the Bossanova
Make sure that there's no place for mingers
Poor wannabe karaoke singers
Famous for five minutes on your screen
After that, rarely seen
Thank God for folk clubs and library shelves
For people who think for themselves
For harmonica players, banjo pickers
Thank God for poetic take the mick-ers
Keep it real and be creative
Cogitate, be contemplative
Play with gusto, play it calm
Play it underneath your arm
Sing your song. Here's the craic
You don't need a backing track
Simon Cowell, what's it to be?
Power or money or originality?
And if there's such a thing as the judgement day
I know some musicians who'd gladly pay
To play, as they guide you on your way
To eternal damnation in Hell
(Don't forget your stylist gel)
To the gates of a hot and fiery Hades
Where you can't take your pink Mercedes
Where the heavenly choirs are not admirers
Since you bluntly told Gabriel that he didn't have the voice of an angel.
