The Ballad of IDS.
Oh wicked man, you spread your fear
In darkened rooms, with dreary bed
And tears that fall, in empty halls;
As thy hatred hits us,
when ATOS calls.
And suffering from thy contempt,
the poor are left all unkempt,
for they cannot even afford a house
But pay for thine; you dirty louse.
We sit in humbled wheeled chairs
And sob at the bottom,
of our ungainly stairs.
As you with your ghastly bellow
Spout false statistics,
you rotten fellow.
And all the while, you sit and gurn
To TV camera’s from which we learn.
That you believe in Jesus Christ,
And your followers say –
“Look he’s nice”.
What a thing it is, your creed!
to favour the Gods of Mammon
over the lives of men,
seeking out any opportunity
to feed like carrion
on the wreckage of people’s lives.
Ye deem yourselves the sons of kings,
All ye ‘leaders’ who rule by some un-divine right,
Clearly thou stands to the left of a demon
Whose passionate embrace thy souls doth crave.
I pity one such as thee,
for ye will never know!
The companionship of decency
You dreadful carrion crow.
Thou arte like the fabled bird,
which Helgermund espied
That flew over his Fair Maiden’s prow
To guide him home again, once more
But instead of a saviour
Was a trickster, a liar, a shape shifter!
Whose niggardly abhorrence,
thou dost most closely resemble.
Fair winds cannot salve the thirsty
When so far out to sea,
They cannot drink the surrounding water.
But you; you disgusting fiend
would have them still pay
The Ferryman’s appalling fee.
For to you the price of their survival is too high,
And the cost abhorrent to your greed;
Which is the only true emotion
That thy wretched cadaver can retain.
For you are a deaths spawn
A demon ceded from some stinking hell.
And your name cannot be spoke!
you should wear a lepers bell.
“Unclean, unclean” your heralds cry!
But we dare ask not for some alms
From your dreadful breast
But must seek instead some solace
From our dying feast of air.
No man was ere more loathed,
who hast turned his back upon compassion.
Who sought to pacify his conscience?
with magic numbers conjured up
from out of the ether.
Thou arte a pestilence, a plague upon the land.
A horror unleashed upon the soul of our Nation
Which will return once again to haunt
The conscience of our descendants
Who did not stand against,
Your terrors and despite.
But the Devil is a waiting
And your fall is assured
I hear it’s hot where you are going
And it’s not abroad.
Thy genealogy is hatred pure!
And your name, it stands for shit.
“Iain Duncan Smith” he’ll say,
“Welcome to the pit”.