This man held a song in my throat;
Oh how I clean the stains daily,
Yet he left only once.
This man soaked my stomach
With the skin of a pig
And the heart of a stoat;
This man now cannot say what he wants
Because he does not know,
While the parliamentarians ferment revolt.
This man did not think of the rift and the ripple,
Nor long on the legacy-love of a tipple,
Nor the blackbird nesting within my vision.