Baking Cakes for Mary Berry

The land lies desolate. The matrons wail, the men lie weeping.

Did you not know it was not enough to say "this is the BBC, the BBC, the BBC"?

The young men stir up mixed fruit
The young women sieve their flour
And they all bakes for Mary Berry.

Let Mel go into panto
and Sue resort unto game shows.

But now they must all go into exile
To the wilds of Channel 4
With their soggy bottoms
And their forced doubles entendres about things rising unexpectedly well
Or people struggling with their tarts
Due to their shrivelled plums.

Did they not see what happened to Top Gear?
Do the old ones not remember Morecambe and Wise on ITV?

Bereft I shall dress in sackcloth
And cover myself in ashes.
Topped off with a rather clever meringue whose recipe I inherited from my grandmother.