You’ve caught me,
Red-handed,
Committing my crime.
You scream with pleasure,
“Oh, what a treat it is
To catch the perfect.”
So run along now,
Little Bird.
Sing your song
With juicy details of me.
Cry out your story
I’m sure plenty will listen.
The Media will rage with
Newspapers full of my name,
Of my conviction,
And of yours.
Magazine tabloids gossip
With untruthful gob.
You’ve caught me,
Red-wristed,
Red-hipped,
Committing my crime.
So run along now,
Little Bird.
Sing your song
With juicy details of me
And my guilt.
It’s not like you haven’t done it before.

