Take all your overgrown infants
Away somewhere
And build them a home,
A little place of their own.
The Fletcher Memorial
Home for Incurable Tyrants and Kings.

And they can appear to themselves every day
On closed circuit T.V.
To make sure they're still real.
It's the only connection they feel.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome,
Reagan and Haig, Mr. Begin and friend,
Mrs. Thatcher, and Paisly,
"Hello Maggie!"
Mr. Brezhnev and party.
"Who's the bald chap?"
The ghost of Mccarthy,
The memories of Nixon.
"Goodbye!"
And now, adding color, a group of
Anonymous latin-American
Meat packing glitterati.

Did they expect us to treat them
With any respect?
They can polish their medals
And sharpen their smiles,
And amuse themselves playing games for awhile.
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead.

Safe in the permanent gaze
Of a cold glass eye.
With their favorite toys,
They'll be good girls and boys
In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial
Wasters of life and limb.

Is everyone in?
Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied.