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
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