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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.



I am the mad old bad old pote

But that's just me

Take it or leave it

But that’s just me, 



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