Though we knew we had him cornered
we knew little of his life
still the nation twitched its curtains
and sharpened up the knife.
Having figured out his weakness
we hunted down the prey
and set our traps
for his every lapse
and in the long grass we lay.
Now his guts are in all the papers,
his sins on every tongue,
seems there’s no question about it
but I have just one:
As David Scarboro’s ghost
dries its tears on his cuff,
how long before we lift our sorry heads
and decide we’ve read enough?
Harry Gallagher
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