Ode to Hitch

by Sarah Firisen

There once was a writer called Hitch,
Whose contrarian urge had an itch,
He had no sacred cows,
No unbreakable vows,
No ideals too holy to ditch.

A brilliant but difficult sod,
Who took as his nemesis, God,
Perhaps a bold move to make,
He announced him “not great”,
Embracing the role, lightning rod.

But now our dear Christopher's dead,
Was it fags and the booze? obits said,
If it was, what the hell,
The wild ride was swell,
And no flip-flop on Hitch's death bed!