Kings Cross


The Kings cross,

who made him vex,

a rich man with a small child complex,

cut off their heads hang them high,

still feels glum,

tax them to the kilt,

illegalise the hilt,

but not much relief,

on your knees,

don’t take my eye,

be subservient, recompent,

still he is about to cry,

out afloat on his massive boat,

size of a small country surrounded by a moat,

why can he not find pleasure or delight,

in these things for free,

paid for by those who free cannot be.

Categories: writing

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