Fennema’s tribe of unruly children mimicks,
his clueless and cliched cluster of gimmicks.
Blue singlets and stubbies are Bronson’s suits,
with every crude utterance that fool pollutes.
In the most hallowed halls of philosophy,
his rabid rants aren’t worth an apostrophe.
While kind men ponder the meaning of life
and what’s so wonderful about their wife,
all Bron does is mock a sixth of the species,
for their alleged love of drilling into faeces.
He’s a tragic joke of a man that Fennema,
apparently he’s never heard of an enema.
Many of Bronson’s rants about anal probes
are aimed at derriere fearing germaphobes.
The prostate cancer test he’s bound to delay
because he is terrified it will turn him gay.
Those who gave him an undignified label
bled to death on on their restaurant table.
In his isolation cell Bron still denigrates,
those who think fists can’t win debates.