The future that we bought into has ******* us, all
due to those weevils in the counting houses playing handball with our cash.Give 'em all three strokes with the cat o nine tails,let's hear them moan and send their wails across the land so others of this thieving band may listen and take heed.
I'm sick of being bled bone dry so they can feed,I need to take a stand and start an anti weevil band but that takes cash and dash it all,it's all being counted down in county hall.

I have counted many lucky stars while laid out on the floors in several bars and then have counted several more when making it out of the door into those spaces where I know the sad and lonely people go
but I'm not one of them thank God,I've always been a little odd like that,the flat sound and Elliot knew it too,the wasteland of the tasteless,few will guess how I digress and each day more becomes the mess I make,this jiggery pokery keeps on poking me as if I could be anything other than the skullduggery I partake in.

I have spun my sin into this shawl I wear and call to some greater being to help me bear the shame but it seems like '*******' is my name I hear it often cited by the counting men who couldn't count the Viscounts in a biscuit barrel,
and so I do a barrel roll and bowl along my merry way which I do quite nicely every day and if tomorrow is another day
when do we start the war?