Paul Harris I Sing: No. 1

Have you thought how you might look on telly?

Because the way you squealed, totally aghast,

and the way you’ve revelled in taking revenge,

a director might have sized you up and cast

a bass-baritone as an emasculated Farinelli

playing an evil alien architect of a henge

that for 10 years now, when bridging the void

between the Victorian police and every “other”

is the sacred duty of the Triple R space mother

be the person sweet or offensive to the nose,

be the person black, gay, a “bizarre” paranoid

schizophrenic turned angry, violent protester

or a lonely, “rehabilitated” child molester,

has provided water for many a copper’s hose.

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