Voice of the Fates: Woe, for Osama has won! Osama has won!
Voice of the Ages: For Richard Dawkins has lost his little pot of honey.
Leader: Tell it not in Jericho, announce it not in Port Meadow.
All: For the mighty has been brought low. From a watery grave, Bin Laden's hand has grasped a pot of honey from the Clever One.
Voice of the Ages: Vanity, vanity - all is vanity.
Leader: And now how shall Richard eat his toast?
All: Dry! Dry!
Leader: With what shall he make mead?
All: He can't! And even if he could, would it not be confiscated? For is not mead always an unclean substance that the eyes of the air stewards cannot see, and a stench unto the customs officers' nostrils?
Leader: And did they not know who he is?
All: The scoundrels drag him down to the dirt of dundridge - he who once said a terribly witty thing to a fellow-don at High Table [see his books, passim].
Leader: And so the plot hatched in Bin Laden's heart, that one day, a zoologist would be unable to take a pot of honey on to a plane to gladden his heart with mellifluous sweetness, was achieved. And now only two of Osama's ambitions are left unto him:
All: To get chickens excluded from the railways, and to banish chewing gum from the streets of London.
Leader: But one thing, and just one, now puzzles my heart: If Osama has won....
All: Then where, and how, is he celebrating?