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The Prophet
by ChloŽ Yates

Bubbleheaded, cockeyed,
You can call me either one,
But I say I’m a Prophet
And you can ask my bloody Mum.
Revelations, prophesies,
Miracles as well,
I really am the Son of God;
I was born in Tunbridge Wells.
I will not try to sell you
Mcgubbins or a fake,
Just watch me transfigure this
From wine into a shake.
My time has come at last, I say,
To lead my people on,
But the trouble is the traffic’s bad
Around junction thirty one.