Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere
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
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig
Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, and Paisley
“Hello Maggie!”
Mr. Brezhnev and party
“Scusi dov’è il bar?”
The ghost of McCarthy,
The memories of Nixon.
“Who’s the bald chap?”
“Good-bye!”
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 awhile
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you’re dead
Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye
With their favourite toys
They’ll be good girls and boys
In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial
Wasters of life and limb
Is everyone in?
Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied
