They had issued him a warrant which they had in light of current
Knowledge, sent to where he's holed up in Majorca on his arse,
He was fleeing from a debt, about the size of the alphabet
So Vanstone got in touch with 'Skasey, of The Overdraft'.
And an answer came directed in a language unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a fat gold fountain pen)
'Twas his Pixie who had wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
'Chris is sick ya mongrel bastards, and he won't be back again.'
In my room, which ain't too spacey, visions come to me of Skasey
In his rich palatial mansion sucking cocktails by the pool,
As the thousands whom he swindled, with diminished savings dwindled,
battle on to scratch a living and kick themselves for fools.
And Skase hath friends to meet him, and his doctor's voices greet him
As they stick him in a wheelchair, behind an oxy mask,
For they hath but one mission, to prevent his extradition,
For he pays them handsome pesos, almost anything they ask.
Chris is sitting with his lawyers in a Spanish courthouse foyer,
Cooking desperate deputations to stay out on the lam,
And now by way of answer emphysema's turned to cancer,
Whose miraculous remission hinges just on how things scan.
And in place of senoritas I can hear the bleeding bleaters
In our parliament declaring 'sorry, but our hands are tied,'
For back here in Australia our greatest business failure
Exacts a secret admiration for what they wish they'd tried.
But if he's truly dying then I'd have to say I'm lying
If I didn't think that Karma was consigning him to hell,
For the millions that he stole in his corporate robber's role
Match the number in his body of every cancerous cell.
And I sometimes wish with Skasey that the law weren't prima facie,
Then we'd track him down and park his bloody wheelchair up his arse,
But Don Quintex and Sancho Pixie will once more whistle Dixie
Coz I'm sure he'll find a loophole, Skasey of The Overdraft.
Unknown