Filled as it is with Defender jeeps, Gucci shades, Limited Edition Repsol Replica Blade and the best Grey Goose laundered money can buy.
Money can’t buy love said Lennon, or was it McCartney?
Nevermind... it buys everything else.
You lie back on the plush chesterfield
paid for with someone else’s money
and contemplate the world on a Thursday afternoon.
Blissfully unaware that Richard’s laughing at you.
Laughing at you, as you sit there,
overlooking the lake in your fake-bake.
You swear you’ve had enough
of the Plebs with their gal, their Arrack.
They’re way off-tack.
They should go to hell. It’s been an unbearable dry-spell.
There’s no chutzpah in being a rebel.
No anarchic swell for the dissident in jail.
The dissident in jail
There’s a man in a cell
For twenty years you can sell
the story
In the Daily Noisery
Of his corruption and 'collusion'
with the Masters.
The sort you’re hiding now on Army territory.
Territory – ha ha yes. It’s all yours.
Liberated from the axis of evil.
And thrown to the fire. For good measure.
You think, “I’ll tell them to go to hell...
there’s enough thel”
Yes and more than enough bread.
That construct’s in your head.
You utter fuckwit.
Turn on your Blackberry Bold and download an app
that directs you to my head.
And let me show you to your bed.
