There was a dodgy dealer,
Who bought a football club;
Who does not drink a pint of ale:
Won't see him in the pub.
He's a body chopper:
Owns half of every place.
He'll chop 'em up, nice and small,
And put them in a case.
Although he has some critics,
Each and every one,
Gets chopped up, and chopped up good;
Let's hope he's having fun.
To be free from critics:
That's his only hope,
To silence tongues, he won't hear,
And with whom, he can't cope.
He has an army, and a fleet;
With a cheque, he'll clear the sheet.
His bespoken list of shopping (of body parts -- his plague),
Consists only of not stopping.
Bang. Bang. You're dead. Speak not thus!
Your body parts won't make a fuss.
The bloody rich will chop the poor,
And leave them bleeding at the door.
He'll chop them up, and chop them good,
Not like old Robin Hood.
He owns a whole country:
An entire military.
His gilded cosseted life of crime,
Shall be found sublimely fine.
Chop, chop, goes the hammer,
Of his cocky gun.
He'll chop 'em up, and chop 'em well.
Who is left (?) : left to tell?
The knife is stabbed.
The victim bleeds;
So does the planet, still in need,
Of the words: the art of truth.
We've nothing now but bloody tooth.
If I was a chopper,
I'd chop the chopper good.
I'd chop him good, through and through,
Like I was in his hood.
Oh, behold the chopper.
The miscreant reprobate.
With his lungs he seeks to chide,
Though they be full of hate.
Chop, chop, goes the candle,
Down the deep dark well.
With friends like these, we've friends indeed,
No matter who, or what your creed.
Here's a pot of money.
It will gild your crimes with honey.
He's bought the team, like he's your Dad.
This is not a passing fad.
That's fine. Let's forget the truth.
Let's forget history; and our youth,
Who kick a ball, shall need to stall.
If not, bespoken evil falls.