No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes, where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes, and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.
No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane, where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig, who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.
They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off, stripped off, sing dirges to their loss but me, I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women, fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men, bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.
Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts, ripped off their backs, attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my arse.
so good luck you shits
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes, where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes, and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.
No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane, where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig, who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.
They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off, stripped off, sing dirges to their loss but me, I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women, fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men, bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.
Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts, ripped off their backs, attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my arse.
so good luck you shits
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.
John Smallshaw
