Harold Shipman down in hell looks up in envy;
In his Broadmore cell Pete Sutcliffe heaves a sigh,
For neither one could match
The speed and the despatch
Of KILLER MATT slapsticking who should die.
And Goering doffs his crown of deadly nightshade,
Holds it aloft and coos “See if this fits!
Let’s forget our wartime quarrels!
KILLER MATT deserves the laurels!
He’s killed off more than I did in the Blitz!”
Killer Matt! Killer Matt!
He knocks into a cocked hat
The tales of murderers in days of yore!
Killer Matt! Killer Matt!
A machine-gun’s rat-a-tat
On the Western Front could not kill any more!
He’s killed your gran & grandad and their carers,
A super serial-killer, still at large
Whose Ambassadors of Death
Unaware killed with their breath
Untested when the poor souls were discharged!
Though uncowled, he’s both grim & mediocre,
And has spread more plague than a Sumatran rat:
With his first in PPE
He lies on the BBC
And he’ll get away with it, will KILLER MATT!
Killer Matt! Killer Matt!
Next he’ll cross-infect your cat!
He’s the Tory Party’s Fred West! Killer Matt!
And nobody can smirk
And make it look like such hard work
As can the King of Killers, Killer Matt!
Killer Matt! Killer Matt!
Is that drool on his cravat?
Does he now exude a heady graveyard smell?
But he’ll get his just reward
When the murderers applaud
His inevitable homecoming in Hell.