Here I sit in tatty toga
Jeering on my hired swords
Letting loose my local ogre
On the undeserving hordes
Tuning up my feeble fiddle
I decide the felons' fate
Barbecue them on a griddle
Clap their hands and amputate
This is what I call a circus
Wolves are waiting at the door
Ready to rip up the shirkers
Dining out upon the poor
Emperor and vigilante
I'm a populist with teeth
Dribbling in my warm Chianti
Sitting on my moral wreath
