The face, none too intelligent,
Eyes, openly malevolent,
Stare at the world with hatred and distrust,
A cynical smile on the lips,
Nails bitten to below the quicks,
Fingers tarred with a nicotine-red rust.
Donít aggravate this little psychopath,
He likes to act the gangster,
But donít incur his wrath.
He hates the filth, he hates the screws,
Talks like heís nothing left to lose,
He airs his views
With Anglo-Saxon phlegm.
Far better were he locked away
Forever: Category A,
Than shortly let out on the streets again.
Thereís many poseurs in this place,
But when youíre standing face to face
With him, you realise heís not one of them,
But one of a far different creed,
A soulless child, a demon seed,
A breed thatís rightly called
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