Perhaps the stars weren’t aligned.
Perhaps it’s in the DNA.
Either way the reboot sags,
flaccid as a spent condom.
It walks around the ABC studio
with its hands clasped behind its back,
that gesture of defeat,
It is laboured, lassitudinous, much in need
of a cattle prod up the ass, as my old
friend, twelve years in, would say.
A bit severe perhaps.
It’s lost its zest, its zing,
It’s dead on its feet.
Even Jesus couldn’t resuscitate it.