What if I told you that Cock Robin is not dead?
Would you think that I was playing with your head?
What you heard was just a rumour
A fabrication through twisted humour
Yes, it was all a big fat lie
A tale concocted by the sparrow and the fly
They did it for a lark and involved the lark in it
He thought it was hilarious and encompassed the linnet
What they did was wicked and foul
With no compassion for the distress of the owl
Or for the dove
Cock Robin’s one and only love
They knew the story would crush the delicate thrush
Upset the wren and destroy the hen
It was all through jealousy and malicious spite
Envy of Cock Robin and his good friend the kite
Everyone believed their lies
They even pulled the wool over the large bull’s eyes
So the question is where did he go?
And if he’s not dead then why doesn’t he show?
It’s true about the sparrow and his little arrow
Robin hadn’t died but he sure had bled
And he’d fallen out of the tree and bumped his head
After the thump his life took a slump
And he lived for many years in a rubbish dump
He has moved on since then
And I’ve seen him time and again
Living like a bum in an East End slum