Air: Monto
Lord Archer felt a little sick.
The hacks were up to all his tricks.
He had to put away his prick
Or he was toast.
And so he bid his tart depart
Along with two kay for a start,
Not knowing that the hacks were smart:
They paid the most.
Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Right all.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.
Lord Archer's in the court. All rise!
He swears not guilty on his life.
The judge admires his fragrant wife
And al-i-bi.
Five hundred grand against the Press.
You'll pay to slight our noble guest.
The tart, not fragrant, all oppressed
And made to cry.
Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Right all.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.
To follow Whittington our player
Decided to be London's mayor
But then his alibi unfair
Was undone.
A four-year sentence is decreed.
In open prison, he proceeds
To write his own biography,
Noble Con.
Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Shite hall.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.
--
Stephen Moran
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