Blooming like a bunch of budless flowers,
Like little George stumbling upon the sceptre of unprecedented powers,
Bloating up like a gas filled balloon,
The gas of steroid vacuum;
Inviting the world into his disfunct family,
But hiding the fragrance of his fanciful lily,
Venting his ‘righteous’ rage on harmless roaches,
Fleecing the poor sheep, which he poaches;
Where do you go next little George?
On whose hard-earned meal would you gorge?
Is there no shame in being the leach?
And yet you call yourself rich!
Hey George, how long will you stay little?
There will be a time when your bones will be brittle,
Your knees would hold you up no more,
And fluids will pour out of every pore;
Dear George, leave behind your haughty ways;
Make peace while your money still pays,
Follow the light to the brightness,
And in your life there shall be no stillness.