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Mad Pote



 



I am the Mad Pote.



Some people ask me why



I chose such a strange name;



I tell them, sometimes I cry 



In anger for the injustices



I see around me every day



And I cry for all those



Who know no other way



But to accept their lot



At the bottom of the heap,



Promised, promised, promised,



But talk comes cheap.



 



So, I am the Mad Pote



Of a mad old bad old world



And I try to go to war 



With all my banners unfurled 



For the sad and the poor



The deprived and the crying



Those not yet born



Those dead or just dying.



And you may think I’m wrong



But brother that’s all right



We all chose our cause



Our battles that we fight.



 



I’m still the Mad Pote



With a life I enjoy



And I’m sorry my beliefs



At times worry and annoy,



But on the other hand



I see the funny side of life



The sheer humour there



Is amazingly good and rife.



And I’m proud of being human



Though here I must confess



I wish we so often didn’t make



Such a bloody awful mess.



 



So,



I am the mad old bad old pote



But that's just me



Take it or leave it



But that’s just me, 



See.



 







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