Full I do remain,
if tirade is the quench,
there’s an awful lot to say,
by those upon the bench,
rarely am I used,
by chosen moderator,
acting as the referee,
a mock god-like creator,
there go little sips,
from a sporting hero,
to dilute their chosen pain,
wearing a size zero,
a big gulp is taken,
by the one who answers,
such an audience applauds,
all the chat show chancers,
half of me is spilt,
if drunken star does stir,
not plugging book, their agent cries,
at an A-list slur,
thus, empty I become,
just like the ones who speak,
oral cheques, that do despair,
that make their lives so bleak.