This is a tale of two blokes, one called Jenkins, one called Stone,
Though both were tried for murder, only one of them went home,
Now Jenkins was a teacher, an upstanding chap was he,
Except when battering his wife or forging his CV.

While Stone, he was a junkie, and an arsehole and a thief,
Right from his boyhood he gave many people tons of grief,
He battered one bloke, stabbed another, served a lot of time,
While Jenkins, fine upstanding bloke, a stranger was to crime.

They found two bodies in a country lane in darkest Kent,
Another in a Hastings house where Jenkins came and went;
The victim's blood was on his shirt, and no one else was there,
Apart from his young daughters, so a murder charge was fair.

But with the two in Cherry Garden Lane, no sign of Mick,
And not a smudge or fingerprint to put him in the thick,
They pulled him in for robbery, and stuck him in a cell
Next to a junkie snitch who had a dazzling tale to tell.

This bloke shouted he did it through the wall, young Daley said,
And others too said Stone confessed when he was off his head,
He was convicted, then one of them said, it weren't like that,
Conviction quashed, a retrial ordered, but the Crown stood pat.

The second trial was based on Daley's testimony only,
Which even the old judge must have thought was a load of pony.
Convicted, gaoled for life again, as was that Jenkin's bloke,
But he got bail for his retrial, and the next, what a joke.

A bigger joke was Stone's conviction for a second time,
While Jenkins - jury deadlocked - walked away, cleared of the crime,
But only technically, everybody knows he did it,
Just as they know Stone is a sap, though the Filth won't admit it.

And nor will Nigel: "Sound conviction!" he reiterates,
From his retirement condo in the South United States,
Houston, we have a problem, but that's Filth the whole world over,
As long as they get a "result", the bastards are in clover.

February 14, 2010