Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. It all depends on what paper you buy
So what do you know? Asks the old man in a suit
I know not to talk to you, Says the boy on route.
Oh do you now, says of man grinning. Then let me tell you tale of one man sinning
It happened on a day that no-one can remember,
It happened when he was alone, maybe the 5th of December
Walking down a path, in the middle of the woods,
Desperate and persecuted by the media hoods.
Two bottles of pain killers and few whiskies later
He cut his wrists and let the blood from them filter
Covering the ground on that misty day
He slumped on the grass and cried in dismay.
Now he is dead, and all for nothing
So now my boy, now you know something
No I don’t old man, it’s just a story
Is it my boy, you must be a Tory.