The Fletcher Memorial Home

Take all your overgrown infants away,

some    where,

And build them a home,

a little place of their own.

The Fletcher Memorial

Home for incurable tyrants

and      kings.

And they can appear to themselves every day,

On closed circuit T.V.

to make sure they’re still real.

It’s the only connection they feel.

please welcome Reagan and Haig,

Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher and Paisley,

Mr. Brezhnev and party, the ghost of McCarthy,

The memories of Nixon. And now adding colour,

A group of anonymous

Latin-American meat packing glitterati.”

Did they expect us to treat them

with any respect?

They can polish their medals

and sharpen their smiles,

And amuse themselves

playing games for a while.

Boom boom, bang bang,

lie down you’re dead.

Safe in the permanent gaze

of a cold glass eye,

With their favorite toys,

they’ll be good girls and boys.

In      the Fletcher Memorial

Home for colonial wasters of life     and      limb.

Is everone in? Are you having a nice time?

Now the final solution can be applied.