he speaks in capital letters
has no peers nor betters
spurned by those called heroes
to whom no mercy he shows
his abode, the end of a gun
the fast car stolen for fun
a dirty needle in the arm
he's always about, forever calm
he has never been discerning
for sainthood or burning
be they pauper or millionaire
for each he will be there
recently in Old London Town
following the bombers around
so much work, he finds it odd,
is down to some demanding god
famine is too close a friend
with gluttony he'll oft attend
though for a real high score
his favoured partner is war
so whenever hatred is rife
he's there with his scythe
empty eyes beneath dark hood
mopping up our spilt blood
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