At dawn we rid from the House of Lords,
Having smoked a pack of wild parliamentary ministers from their den.
The mangy beasts have never done us any good;
They (and similar vermin) are beginning to clutter up the English countryside.
By day the hide, depositing their acrid scent across the land.
By night they slyly creep into our farms and steal our chickens.
Twelve a-horse and thirty hounds per pompous rat should serve
To have the matter settled by the evening.
A blur of black against the forest grey sets off the dogs;
Hearts are racing and the hunt is on.
The weasels shoot away with sudden unexpected speed
But following the clear trail of fallen white wigs we soon have them cornered in Leicester square,
Where they are promptly ripped apart and left to rot in the hot London sun.
Stop scaring me you're scaring me
I don't like big words I don't like
any words at all I am not a part
of the world leave me alone you
sort it all out I only want my own
life and nothing to do with anyone
else?s and anywhere else
the news is for grown ups problems
in other places are other people?s
problems give me radio music
give me expensive clothes give
me looks give me style give me grace
give me no trouble I don't want your
trouble I don't deserve it
I don't deserve anything at all.