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The
(E)world has surely (F#min*)lost
it's head
The (A)news is full of (E)crimes.
There's (E)robberies in The (F#min*)Telegraph,
And there's (A)murders in The (F#min)Times.
And (A)always more o(E)bituaries,
And (D)even one of (A)these,
Con (E)cerns the brutal (F#min*)slaughter
Of an (A)Old Miss Emma (E)Keys.
The police have got their
man, they're sure,
He never left the scene.
Indeed he led the hue and cry,
A most unusual thing.
An arsonist, a murderer, his soul will soon be frying.
He's young, but old enough to kill,
But not too young for dying.
Now it seams the populus
will queue,
To see him stand in court.
To hear him speak his wicked lies,
While smiling at his thoughts.
This arrogant young roughian is obviously guilty.
Though no where does it say exactly,
How or why he killed her.
Forget it dear it's not
the first,
There's bound to be another.
The way you carry on
You'll have us thinking she's your mother.
This man called "Me" has had his day,
And soon he'll be forgotten,
So put that paper down before your breakfast goes quite rotten.
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