Father and son, holy ghostly, the spook’s
Gone down the road to seek the ailing king.
Never mind the media, they’re a bunch of kooks
And from their words no truth is gonna ring.
Just watch them now, dad and the kid, spot lit,
Smiling bravely as microphones edge nearer, nearer.
Their spirit’s gonna get etched away every little bit
By the acid rain of questions, the judge, the juror.
A hint of fear, a whiff of truth fills the freighted air
Blood recedes from clammy faces, n-nothing to say.
But then, like bells, the spook comes passing fair
He stops to kiss them both and doubt just flies away.