Omov roamed the foyer with a glint inside his eye;
He was Eastwood, he was Boyer, with a hint of Captain Bligh;
He flexed his muscle slowly, and he pumped them by the hand,
For Omov, by what's holy, was a legend of his land.
Omov scowling, Omov terse,
Omov in his polished hearse,
Omov with a careful curse,
Omov and his lips a-purse.
Omov swept the party with a melancholic gaze;
He was hardly ever hearty, though perhaps this was a phase;
He blew his smoke rings coolly and they landed like lassos
Round the restless and unruly, for he did not like to lose.
Omov prowling in the shade,
Omov always on parade,
Omov looking unafraid,
Omov with his eyes of jade.
Omov strode the dais to the left and right and centre,
Where he'd hear a victim say his prayers, and call him a tormentor;
In each corridor and caucus, Omov paused for his applause,
And he left them looking glaucous as he pushed on through the doors.
Omov howling in his dream,
Omov with an Omov scheme,
Omov full of chocolate cream,
Omov, captain of the team.
Omov stood unruffled on the bunting-covered stage;
His audience had shuffled in to hear him turn the page;
Each red eye fixed on Omov as if stuck with superglue;
While the houris at the home of Omov brewed his special brew.