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What, you want Keane poem?
Grey, grey, grey, grey, grey, grey, grey.
Death by boredom now.

Oh, wait. Sorry. Hmm.
You want Scissor Sisters poem
All colourful, like.

Dance, Matronic wench
In fine yellow chicken suit
Wash out the Keane grey

Sing, Matronic wench
In that high-pitched way of yours
And own the dance floor

Grin, Matronic wench
Hold up your Brit award high
Make Posh Spice jealous

Oh noes!!! Best album!
Please not Keane. Please, no, not Keane!
Oh, yaay. Won that, too.

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