Alas, poor illumi, devoid of brain, retreating back to his echo chamber of shame.
A gifted simian of some repute, obsessed with conspiracy and Vladimir Poot.
With poor grammar, he left in a fit, a husk of a man, a drooling halfwit.
T’was a joy to know he hit ignore, truth be told: he was a terminal bore.
So with a wry smile I bid thee good luck, lord knows you’ll need it; you Down’s syndrome fuck!