#limerick-hs

Did Louis’ first selfie in ages Foretell jokes on SNL’s stages? Picasso? Not fluky. The headphones? That’s Pooty. And loud from New York, that’s what H is.

England lost, but it’s no time for tears. It came Home when a photo appeared: The backs of two heads Who may share a bed, But have not shared a room in eight years.

Three hundred and fifty-six days Since last we saw Harry on stage, But tonight a duet! For Ms. Nicks’ Hyde Park set, And a Songbird who’s now flown away.

Mr. Cowell, in need of attention, Implanted an H. Styles mention; He says he was rung And praises were sung, Which, much like his face, is invention.

Precisely a year since it started (The Sun forgot ratrry tongues darted)— May the next be as mild (We’re still detoxing Wilde)— The curtain’s come down, Hussell’s parted.

Fans in place, short shorts on, paps are booked As a new round of H-SLOT’s afoot: Harry Styles: Legs On Tour! Very mindful, demure ... Hontent’s flowing as HS4 cooks.

Si’d like to strike 1D gold twice, But your soul for his goal is the price. This modern-day Midas Is v-necked detritus — “Kindly fuck off” is highly advised.

Homeless Edition The internet’s taking-the-piss-ing: Harry’s house and his hair have gone missing. Ol’ Ben’s attic shuffle’s Now hotels with Russell, While his husband squawks on about chicken.