Once there was a cheeky chap

His name was Tommy Plebdoe

Who tried his luck and made a buck

By sending up the ghetto

He’d draw these silly pictures of

The peasants on the estates

The Posh would buy his magazine

To laugh at cultural tastes

Old Tommy didn’t end it there

Desperate to take the mickey

He took the mick with mocking pics

Of the Prophet and his city

His readers laughed with wheezing gasps

Old Tommy had quintessentially

Got his richer readers to

Mock the poor ones’ dignity

And when the ghetto people raged

Old Tommy said: “Don’t worry

It’s just a joke about you folk

Don’t take your selves so seriously!”

“My job is to make people laugh

About the ethnics and poor

My pictures are just made of ink

Violence I completely abhor”

“I make my dosh from people posh

Who laugh and love to giggle

At the things that you believe

So, don’t get in a pickle”

“I don’t care that you feel hurt

You’ll have to just live with it

In the society I’m from

You take it and you give it.”

But the people of the ghetto they

Felt no such liberal luxury

They felt that from his ivory tower

Tommy sneered in summary

The sacred love the poor ones felt

For their holy Prophet

Made their plight just bearable

As working-class composites

Now it felt the posh ones had

Colonised and ruled them

Made them known as immigrants

And now they ridiculed them

But some psychos acted up

And shot up Tommy’s office

Killing some of Tommy’s staff

Leaving murdered corpses

Tommy’s people marched with ire

Chanting “I am Tommy!”

Saying that these terrorists

Were the poor one’s folly

Now the poor ones were entrapped

Between Tommy and the psychos

Not condoning these murders

Nor antics of Tommy Plebdoe

Tommy couldn’t understand

Why these poor still believed

The poor ones couldn’t understand

Tommy’s cynical disease

Tommy and the terrorists

Continued in their tussle

The poor ones in their poor estates

Continued in their struggles