This is the hand that shook the hand of Ahmadinejad,
A fact that makes me happy, and that wanker Brooks so sad.
Let’s bomb Iran
Just like Japan!
And fuck the Palestinians,
And kiss the arse of Zion – after all, we are its minions.
“I used to be a copper, and I nicked a lot of crooks,
I’d fit them up like Michael Stone, that’s okay in my books.”
But tell me Nigel, though you’re an incurable romancer,
Why is it you refuse my simple questions both to answer?
How many men have been in gaol in Iran for eight years
Uncharged like in that Gitmo place, not any, it appears!
And how many have been made homeless by the credit crunch
While scheming Wall Street bankers eat a tax-subsidised lunch?
You have no business poking your big nose in their affairs,
So take your righteous indignation and your fancy airs,
And shove them up your Kosher kissing arse, you fucking div,
Put your own house in order, with Iran live and let live.
This is the hand that shook the hand of Ahmadinejad,
A fact that makes me happy, and that wanker Brooks so sad.
Let’s bomb Iran
Just like Japan!
And fuck the Palestinians.
Or better still, shut your big mouth; we don’t want your opinions!
This is a tale of two blokes, one called Jenkins, one called Stone,
Though both were tried for murder, only one of them went home,
Now Jenkins was a teacher, an upstanding chap was he,
Except when battering his wife or forging his CV.
While Stone, he was a junkie, and an arsehole and a thief,
Right from his boyhood he gave many people tons of grief,
He battered one bloke, stabbed another, served a lot of time,
While Jenkins, fine upstanding bloke, a stranger was to crime.
They found two bodies in a country lane in darkest Kent,
Another in a Hastings house where Jenkins came and went;
The victim’s blood was on his shirt, and no one else was there,
Apart from his young daughters, so a murder charge was fair.
But with the two in Cherry Garden Lane, no sign of Mick,
And not a smudge or fingerprint to put him in the thick,
They pulled him in for robbery, and stuck him in a cell
Next to a junkie snitch who had a dazzling tale to tell.
This bloke shouted he did it through the wall, young Daley said,
And others too said Stone confessed when he was off his head,
He was convicted, then one of them said, it weren’t like that,
Conviction quashed, a retrial ordered, but the Crown stood pat.
The second trial was based on Daley’s testimony only,
Which even the old judge must have thought was a load of pony.
Convicted, gaoled for life again, as was that Jenkins bloke,
But he got bail for his retrial, and the next, what a joke.
A bigger joke was Stone’s conviction for a second time,
While Jenkins – jury deadlocked – walked away, cleared of the crime,
But only technically, everybody knows he did it,
Just as they know Stone is a sap, though the Filth won’t admit it.
And nor will Nigel: “Sound conviction!” he reiterates,
From his retirement condo in the South United States,
Houston, we have a problem, but that’s Filth the whole world over,
As long as they get a “result”, the bastards are in clover.
February 14, 2010
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