Modern woes

I tell you woe to people like these,

They wont shake your hand

In case they catch some disease,

Yet where ever they go

They continually sneeze,

They'll give you discomfort

So they feel at ease,

They delouse your cat,

Yet they're covered in fleas,

I tell you woe, to people like these.

I tell you woe to people like these,

They wont help you out,

Because they're on their knees,

Praying for you

While you swing in the breeze,

Give you a dustpan,

While you stand in debris

from your recently imploded life,

They say “please...

I think you missed a bit...”

I tell you woe to people like these

I tell you woe to people like this,

Nice to your face

But to your back, it's a diss,

Their loving words are as kind

As Judas' last Kiss

I tell you woe to people like this.

I tell you woe to people like this.

They think they're all that,

But they're less hit, more miss,

Living the life-style,

Blowing the kiss,

Looking down on the poor

While in debt to the rich,

I tell you woe to people like this,

They've had they're reward,

All they clenched in their fist,

A hand full of fairy dust,

That disappears like the mist,

In the first light of day,

Like loves latest tryst,

The bed is all empty,

You wont be missed,

I tell you woe to people like this.

I tell you woe to people like those,

Who cried 'help the homeless,

Lets give them warm clothes',

But when crossing them, huddled

In the door of Waitrose,

Last December, they rather conveniently

Froze,

inactive and glued to the spot,

by their toes

I tell you woe, to people like those,

 

I tell you woe to people like you,

Who think that you're clean

In all that you do.

Outside; all porcelain,

Inside; all Loo,

Making a show,

If only they knew,

You think you've arrived

When really you're through,

Your body is old,

But your facelift is new,

You're fooling no-one,

Least of all, you

Woe to people like you

Woe to the whitewashed tombs

Woe to the face of it,

Woe to perfume,

That covers the scent

Which comes from the gloom

the rotting bones,

Stored in your room,

The skeleton closet,

Closest to discovery soon,

Woe to white house and woe to the room

Woe to the white picket fence,

Woe to the chintz

And to the pretence,

Woe to the death that it marks

Death by degrees,

Died in the dark

While outside is all sweetness and light,

The tomb dressed for Sunday,

In the brightest of white,

Time to get clean from within,

Break open the tomb,

Dig up the sin,

Pour it all out on display,

And pray for the waters to wash it away.