Old Rustling parchment skins,
Judges in your gowns and wigs,
From elevated perches you look down,
With mocking smiles and unforgiving frowns,
At him who dared to rock the boat,
And change outmoded laws on which you dote,
Oh you so well versed,
In ancient law so well rehearsed,
Sneered in cold derision
At his intellect and vision,
Watching as dark forces spun their web,
Of tangled tapes,
Rustling of old parchment and hungry news hounds
All took up the cry to track him down,
This man of the people and champion of the weak.
Must be made silent, never more to speak.
For you-all Press Barons,
No poets will ever sing songs of praise,
For you are nothing in the scheme of things.
You judged this man and slew him with your pens
Though legally acquitted you still condemned,
You tried him by the media and drove him to his grave
Now, sheath your pens the deed is done,
The persecuted man-condemned and hung,
Oh, judges and Press Barons
Dark forces tapes and pens,
By history YOU are guilty and condemned.