Wombat, wombat, typing shite
Internet cafes of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could defame thy fearful commentry?
In what gibbon swamp or mist
Lets her write when she's pissed?
On what evidence dare she aspire?
Which solicitor dare seize the ire?
And what bull and what art
Where life and truth are far apart?
And when thy keyboard began to beat,
What dread hand and stamping feet?
What the hard drive? what the chain?
In what furnace of thy brain?
What the logic? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did Sickert His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Wombat, wombat, typing shite
Internet cafes of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could defame thy fearful commentry?
It would have been quite enough having to deal with the Special Branch PR Unit on it's own. But of course I wouldn't have had to. Exactly what Special Branch officials opposed to my research needed, was for a small pack of stalking abusers to make false allegations about me which they could massively use as a lever to discredit me. In fact, they were fairly desperate for anything to use. And The Met are attempting to do exactly this.
Research Archive
Important Questions
Still Here
Time since my stalker threatened to delete this blog 'in an instant':
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