John is what hookers call
Their customers in this land.
They make him feel like a king
And tell him he is grand.
They fuss over him like royalty
As long as he pays the bills.
His habits can make stomachs turn.
He’d be dead, if looks could kill.
King John, the biggest sleaze
To have ever worn the crown
If he were an office building
He would quickly be torn down.
Nobody ever thinks of him
In any pleasant kind of way.
If he has a need he needs filled
No freebies, he has to pay.
If there is some slimy way
To speak a simple sentence
He will choose it, and insult
With no thought of repentance.
He owes his wealth to dirty tricks
And that is just what he is.
An absolute and total waste
Of his awful father’s jizz.
King John sits on his throne
Gathers soulless souls around.
He laughs at those who take his bribes;
A particularly ugly sound.
He has no conscience, so doesn’t see
How quickly his presence can pall.
He is the king of a kind of hell;
No kind of royalty at all.