Gonna tell you a tale that is all about Dick
It requires a strong stomach, lest it make you sick
He's a scribe of the parish, a knave of the south
A desolate heart with gangrenous mouth

He yearns for an England from old history
Where brown-folk had owners and women could be
Burned up as witches or traded by men
And the crippled are laughed at or spat on again

CHORUS
"You can't make it up!", he pleads, "Oh, what a farce!"
Yet he pulls everything he says straight from his arse
He cries, "I can't bully folk even a tad"
"It's political correctness gone totally mad!"

He lives for the outrage that he can invent
And tribades to him are just entertainment
His obsession with gaiety is no great surprise
Is there room in the closet for an ego that size?

REPEAT CHORUS

Dick's bile tars the soul, bringing nothing but strife
See the poor educator who let go of life
A loving trans-woman whose gender's no stunt
Such bitter irony here that Dick is a ...

CHORUS
"Can't make it up!", he pleads, "Oh, what a farce!"
Yet he pulls everything he says straight from his arse
He cries, "I can't bully folk even a tad"
"It's political correctness gone totally mad!"

Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-ay
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-ay
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-WANKER!
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-ay
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-COCK!
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-SHITBAG!
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-ay
Fiddly-i, fiddly-i, fiddly-i-TWAT!

Written by Intermittent Explosive Disorder
© Copyright 2013