Mr Power is a high-flying wag, A swine with global trotters Belongs to a guild of bankers, Low-lying despots and rotters, Well, "guild" isn't really the word, The collective term is "a wunch" In the world of empire building, There really is a free lunch His influence stretches afar, With fingers in many a pie: Politics, oil and security, Without trying he hits the bullseye I'd say he was humble and noted, But he's more of a blimp and a stooge Small but his ego is bloated And his sense of entitlement's huge He parades on stage like Olivier, Treading the boards like a pope He once cracked the floor and fell through, Pity there wasn't a rope Completely devoid of talent, He ascended the greasy pole If the Devil's a Bilderberger, Then we know where he bargained his soul He'd flog his Ma for the wit of Wilde, His Pa for the hand of Yeats But he'll never be more than a footnote On a list of history's ingrates He's surely a man for all seasonings, Though others would say he is not A missionary tribe in New Guinea, Threw his "flabby old arse" out the pot His honourable goal's immigration, Take the third-world into the first A sport for his own amusement: Which poor wretch will come off the worse? In life he's revered by shysters, Architects from the Devil's own pit You can find out their names in the future, Their graves will be drenched in spit He longs to fiddle like Nero, While the countries around him all burn You can find him at the United Nations, Screaming, "By gad, it's my turn!" In the race for a New World Order, He's the man in pole position He's the hammer of the western world, Eyes fixed strangely on Great Britain Forget ten thousand years of progress, Mr Power knows better than you He don't give a damn about history And the lessons of what not to do He's a morally superior beast, With godly pretensions and such Not quite a turbo-charged stallion, More of an old two-stroke Puch You can catch him each night on a Friday, Preaching pearls from afar At O'Reilly's, O'Neil's or O'Sullivan's, Or some other fake Irish Bar Mr Power and all of his schemers Have a sanction to rewrite the rules Infiltrating organisations, Such as governments, unis and schools He knows what's best for the people: They’re too stupid to understand Like turkeys voting for Christmas, They'll concede the fat of the land Using stealth and propaganda, He preys on the minds of youth Locked in a Stockholm syndrome, They'll believe anything but the truth He casts a crooked shadow and has discord wherever he goes On a cock-horse, a sweating Godiva, One more fool in the Emperor's clothes.