The Jury's Out
I'm bored with the wigs and the wags,
And the feeling is more than subliminal.
I don't understand it. Time drags.
The waste of the hours is criminal.
All this white-collar crime is uncivil,
And the evidence gets on my wick:
Thousands of pounds of pure drivel –
I feel ill, I feel foul, I feel sick.
Oh bring on the burglar and bully,
Where the cases are open-and-shut,
Where the brain-cells engage, but more fully,
And I don't feel so much of a mutt.
What is the point of a jury?
What is the point of a judge?
It reduces my thoughts to a fury,
To porridge, to mulch, and to sludge.
I'm gleaming with spit and with polish,
Giving public opinion the sack –
I'm going. It's time to abolish
This business of bombing Iraq.