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Breakfast In Mayfair |
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Fairport Convention |
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The world has surely lost it's head |
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The news is full of crimes. |
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There's robberies in The Telegraph, |
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And there's murders in The Times. |
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And always more obituaries, |
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And even one of these, |
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Concerns the brutal slaughter |
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Of an Old Miss Emma Keys. |
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The police have got their man, they're sure, |
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He never left the scene. |
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Indeed he led the hue and cry, |
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A most unusual thing. |
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An arsonist, a murderer, his soul will soon be frying. |
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He's young, but old enough to kill, |
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But not too young for dying. |
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Now it seams the populus will queue, |
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To see him stand in court. |
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To hear him speak his wicked lies, |
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While smiling at his thoughts. |
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This arrogant young roughian is obviously guilty. |
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Though no where does it say exactly, |
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How or why he killed her. |
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Forget it dear it's not the first, |
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There's bound to be another. |
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The way you carry on |
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You'll have us thinking she's your mother. |
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This man called "Me" has had his day, |
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And soon he'll be forgotten, |
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So put that paper down before your breakfast goes quite rotten. |
