(to be sung in some near approximation of the style of Scott Walker, over churning black metal guitars)

I’ve been dreaming

of an empty cradle

a mother’s tears

precious as diamonds

just think of the front page

No-one can judge me

Only God

if there is a God

can judge me

I put my hands together

bow my head

and pray

let there be

a stadium disaster

let there be

poison gas on the underground

let there be

photographs of starving children

photographs of starving children

starving in their fly-blown millions

reaching out in supplication

I compose the editorial

in the stillness of my mind

you can taste the moral seriousness

you can touch the moral seriousness

caress the moral seriousness

for a small consideration

(a chorus of small children sings):

YOU’LL get the THRASH-ing

YOU’LL get the THRASH-ing

YOU’LL get the THRASH-ing you RICH-ly de-SERVE.

(repeat and fade)

10,000 cyclostyle copies of this for aerial distribution.