The bright young peer who aired his views
was featured in the evening news.
He was, they said, a rising star,
whose brilliance would take him far -
unlike his colleague, in disgrace,
who scarcely now dare show his face,
and merely murmured, 'Well, I guess,
this is not how to court success.
He scarcely could suppress a moan
when summoned to the telephone.

But, much to his extreme delight,
his caller was a kind, polite
executive from 'Sleepyheads'-
a manufactury of beds -
inviting him to name his fee
to do commercials on t.v.
He was, in short, a household name.
He did not have to strive for fame.
He did not have to act or think,
or sit or stand, or eat or drink,
or work or play or smile or weep...
He simply had to fall asleep.

And so began the new career
of the nation's best-loved Tele-peer.
  Within a week, the noble Lord
had been elected to the board -
sleeping partner, as may be,
but still entitled to a fee.
Another call - would he endorse
a brand of sleeping pills? Of course!
His Lordship swiftly gave consent,
and bought the other half of Kent.

His big-screen debut came by way
of that most interesting play,
'The Second Mrs Oglethorpes'.
He played a most convincing corpse
and straightway bought, with his advance,
a villa, in the South of France,
an island paradise and lots
of Renoirs, motor-cars and yachts -
and lived a life of wedded bliss.
In startling contrast to all this,
the bright young peer who aired his views
and briefly made the headline news
is far too busy being boring,
to think where he'd have got by snoring.

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