© Chris Port, 2010, martygull.co.uk.
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
The bankrupts, the breakups, the cockups, the courts
The bailiffmen who bash your door at dawn
The children, the women, the lawyers, the torts
Your cardboard life in boxes on the lawn
The hostel and the alkies with no hope
The light bulb bare and cord flex for a rope
There’s no business like big business
Like no justice I know
Everything about it is just stealing
Everything a contract will allow
Nowhere could you see that crappy ceiling
When you aren’t feeling that tortured brow
There’s no dastards like bank bastards
They bet ‘til we were broke
Yesterday your assets all were Triple A
That night they sank in the U S A
Now it seems that China’s going to have its say
Democracy’s a joke!
The countries, the corpses, the famines, the floods,
The little wars that drag on in the sun
The headlines, the heartaches, the backstabs, the blood
The liquid capital that just won’t run
The hoping when the postman is your chum
The coping when the job offers won’t come
There’s no business like big business
If banks tell you it’s so
Sweatshops in the Third World make a killing
Saving on their labour costs with kids
Cholera won’t stop their coffers filling
With a quite thrilling amount of quid
There’s no wankers like rich bankers
They smile when you are low
Even with a country that is torn by war
They’ll charge them interest and keep them poor
Genocide it seems is now within the law
Let’s go on with the show!
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