Come out of your hideaway, miserable sod!
Weíve chased you for many a year,
Come out of your hideaway, said Mr Plod;
Oh no, said the gambler, no fear!
We know it was you, so fair cop and all that,
Now how about packing it in?
Youíve gotta be kidding; I know where youíre at,
You donít even know where Iíve been.
All right, Lucky fellow, youíve powerful friends,
But youíre on the run from the law,
So isnít it time that you made your amends?
You really are kidding - haw, haw!
Give up while you can, and weíll do you a deal,
Weíll put a good word to the judge;
The Yard are in hot pursuit, hard on your heel.
To that I can only say: Fudge!
You live in South African! Do I indeed?
Bolivia? Chile? Brazil?
We follow you everywhere. Youíve not a lead,
Youíre green as a new dollar bill!
You canít escape justice forever, old man;
We got Ronnie Kray, weíll get you.
Who canít escape justice? I bloody well can!
You havenít the foggiest clue.
Youíve shaved your moustache and youíve got a disguise,
But weíve got your fingerprints, Lucky;
And youíve got a problem, you have to tell lies,
One day youíll be coming unstuck-y.
A problem indeed! Iím doing all right,
I live off the fat of the land,
And youíve never had me not once in your sight,
You idiots wonít understand
Or come to your senses, Iíve got off the hook,
Iím free for a life and a day,
Cos I ainít no run-of-the-mill petty crook,
Iím Lucky Lord Lucan
Who got clean away.
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