Of Aniston whose fame adorneth our visage veil,
Her habit, 'pon breaking, enshrined in tell-tale,
Cancel culture's knave, 'tis the pest she doth rail,
In her interview of yore, revealed without fail.
In Moscow’s cold grasp, lies one Gershkovich bound,
His quill stilled by shackles, no freedom is found,
Lawyers plead for release, appeal echoes with sound,
Till late-November's grasp, his fate thusly crowned.
Then Barker, jest's monarch, with contest so bright,
Price's truth for three decades, in his regalia's light.
Unrehearsed,-spontaneous joy, day or nighttime’s sight,
Verses honour his standing, under TV's starlight.
