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Airport security's become
A bit of a pain in the bum
They'll wipe your hard disk
And give you a frisk
And enjoy it according to some

The English world cup bid is quaking
And there really should be no mistaking
That when Moscow says London
Is crime ridden and drunken
That’s the noise of glass house windows breaking

Now that Paul the Octopus is no longer around
Conspiracy theories will abound
And some could have a case
For, in death’s wet embrace,
The autopsy says that he drowned

The world’s gamblers unite in grief
Reading the news in sad disbelief
Paul’s fishy demise
May bring tears to their eyes
But the bookies’ hit man ensured pain was brief

'Twas the greatest spy-sub ever built,
And its crew they were trained to the hilt.
They were so busy sneaking
And snooping and peeking,
They could not see the sand for the silt.