Where were you the day the President died?
This time we want the truth, no lies,
or story’s cloned from phony magazines.
We want to hear it right.
O.K. Lets start from the beginning,
not walking backwards from the end,
pretending you were a secret agent
who’d strayed behind a pile of porcelain pigs
that flew through old Ma Maloney’s
“Everything Must Go Store.”
The gun, telescopic lens, bullet proof underpants
you wore, getaway car, silvery blue,
almost brand new Buick parked up by Mr. Hewitt’s
pie shop- meat and potato, steak pork and sago-.
What was stuffed in the black bag?
We’re searching all the drains and tunnels.
You won’t get away with it by pleading madness,
you dumb ass . Pass me a gob stopper and turn out the light
while I check out your story…………………………………
It’s shite! You were in the park with Muriel Macaroni,
giving her balony and over age sex. Its on the text message you sent
to Peter “The Patsy” Panstick down the Dry Cleaners.
So you see the case is as clear as day……………..
Nothing to say? You tick all the boxes. Your nicked,
And we’ll do you for the president as well, so we can
keep the lid on the bad smell coming off his case.