Some people shop for trinkets, climb rocks or fish for sport,
Magoo just likes to polish the doorsteps of the court;
To get fresh air he saunters down to the police station,
And you can tell the fucker just lives for litigation.
God being in a hurry, procured his face and gait
From a dodgy knock-off merchant, out of the discount crate;
Magoo revisited the stall, to hunt for some cheap gadget,
And bought himself a conscience, on Black Friday on a budget.
Imagined crimes, concocted debts, vexation and misfeasance
Make him the bane of local courts, a constant irksome presence;
Whispers travel down the halls, in the face of this affliction:
“Why can’t the arsehole move somewhere outside our jurisdiction?”
He bought himself a camera, not for trips or brave op-eds;
Instead he crawls and photographs under other people’s beds.
He doesn’t smoke or take a drink; he’s never paid a happy gal;
But his ear is stuck (as it’s cold as fuck) to his neighbour’s garage wall.
He crawls through every nook and cranny, with eagerness and glee;
To prove you’ve broken one law, he’ll most happily break three.
Fiscals, bless their hearts, mind you, must eat once in a while;
Contrary to urban myths, they don’t live on human bile.
In the Small Claims Court he walks, spruced up and overzealous,
With a crew of plastic gangsters doing cosplay of “Goodfellas”,
In his Sunday suit he smirks, no patches, tears or creases,
To be awarded your one shirt, to later sell for thirty pieces.
He fears no gods nor karma; no morals do beleaguer
The buzz of future gain in his psychopathic figure;
The gain at times as meagre as the pain and mental grind
Of those who wouldn’t kiss his nouveau riche behind.