He died last year and his friends all said he was great,
I knew him thirty years ago in nineteen sixty eight,
I kept quiet last year out of respect for the dead,
No one would want to listen to the secrets I could shed.
I knew then how he had sold his friends to get ahead,
Went to Internal Affairs, kissed ass, talking head,
He sold his own soul for promotion and his stripes,
They gave him an office to rub shoulders with their types,
I watched him through the years; he never changed,
Restless pompous and ambitious; I thought he was deranged,
Caused some of my good friends to really get the axe,
And others to be punished and penalized to the max.
He never caught me though he tried often enough,
Watching silently, quietly shuffling papers in a huff,
And now that he’s dead, it doesn’t seem quite fair,
They’re not celebrating; they’re offering up a prayer.
Why the reluctance for the truth when assholes die?
They probably did the same for old Captain Bligh,
While he was alive, I sometimes thought retaliation,
But now that he is dead; all I feel is frustration.