O.A.F.

 

Obadiah Aloysius Ffortesque-Brown

Was one of the poshest people around.

Big airs and big graces he had in abundance

Which made him quite rude; a nasty encumbrance.

He’d walk up the street with ‘that look’ on his face

That whenever you caught it, felt like distaste.

His demeanour was sour, his attitude hard,

His notion of friendly? A visiting card.

He’d often emerge from a bar in a splurge

With his monocle perched on his nose,

Behaving like royalty, practicing cruelty,

He’d stagger and swagger and lurch.

One day down the street Obadiah he came

To visit the bar and continue his game.

Insults and looks they were flying about

He was carrying on like a louche and a lout.

Until a lone drinker, at the bar did appear,

And took up a pint of very old beer

Which he emptied all over his greasy black hair,

Saying, Obadiah, if only you knew

You’re only a prole you’re not royalty you.

You’re just a jumped-up and demented role-player

Who wants to believe he’s a gent and a lord

But look on and look out for we’ve all had enough

Of your airs and your graces and all that stuff.

It’s about time that you realised you’re no better than folk

You’re merely a liar, a cheat and a hoax.

You’re just acting a role, it’s always the same,

When all’s done and dusted, nothing remains,

Except your initials, which spell out your game.