Tsk, tsk, tsk

[Casey Butler]

TSK, TSK, TSK

Was that your moment, Sir Poet?
She came to you, bowed down
And groveling
Begging for Truth.
And you pissed on her.

You left your children in the cold,
To fend for themselves
Playin' Cats In The Cradle
On your silver spoon...
Baying at the Moon, baying at the Moon.

Decked out in Orange,
You pleased the crowd,
Stalking from the bow range,
Not even collecting your song.

Everybody knows
The Good Shepherd
Steps aside
For the Field Marshall.

Except the grunts,
Except the grunts,
Except the grunts,
From a grunt.

[George.Wright]

Casey,
You certainly know how to express yourself.

Georges.