Shit! It's Jeremy Clarkson!

Shit! It's Jeremy Clarkson!
Revving his wit like a turbo‑charged V8,
He barrels through topics with a cheeky grin,
Leaving a trail of burnt rubber and banter.

From Top Gear's tarmac to the pub's sticky floor,
His opinions clang louder than a lorry's horn,
Yet somewhere beneath the bluster and bluster,
A soft spot for tea—and a well‑done steak—still purrs.

So raise a mug, give a nod, or perhaps a sigh,
For when Clarkson appears, the day takes a spin—
British spelling, British humour, a proper old kerfuffle,
And we all shout, “Shit! It's Jeremy Clarkson!”—again.