So Stuart goes, as expected since week one,
From the imprecision of his Union Flag on,
He never seemed as up to speed as John,
Danny or Brendan, as he went along
Becoming ever more prone to disaster,
The limp bake, the missing taste, careless,
Till Berry flipped her terrible temper
At the death, quiet scorn heaped on meringue mess.
It crept: the fear of an ‘X-Factor’ freak,
The Wagner dragged through for ridicule;
Had unsavoury talent-show tics leached
To sour this gentlest of the genre, to Fool
The man? Victoria went, I feared the worst,
& worser still, ’pon another’s outburst.