At the sound of the first horn, the joke becomes ill,
And there is just no amount of comedic skill,
That can hide its indecency, but try he will,
And despite its poor taste, he will use it still.
Upon the second horn, The Heckler appears,
And the joke is now met with insensitive jeers,
“Is that all you’ve got?!” he does scoff as he sneers,
And upon confrontation he sits there and leers.
The third horn is sounded and Silence arrives,
And of applause and of laughter he cruelly deprives,
Starving the joke of the food he derives,
From the merriment upon which every joke thrives.
The last horn is sounded and the final death stroke,
Is dealt upon our poor unfortunate joke,
He lets out a wheeze and gives a small choke
And at last did our poor whimsy finally croak.
‘Tis the end of the line for our jolly old friend,
And there is no amount of first aid that could mend,
The injuries to what the comedian penned,
For our tired joke has met its sweet end.