A PLOY NAMED SUE (© Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan)

Apologies to Johnny Cash for mangling one of his most famous song titles, but I couldn’t resist it. This is litigation as a lifestyle.

Welcome to the world of the greedy and the free,
consumerism and dysfunction.
Blame anybody, but don’t blame me.
Everyone’s out to lunch.
Get yourself a lawyer, gotta get yourself a shrink,
gotta get a lifestyle guru.
Think like the other individualists think,
and then they’ll never see through you.
I’m okay, you’re okay, everybody’s okay.
Nothing that you ever do is wrong.
‘Seek and ye shall find’, the Good Book says,
somebody to pin it on.
Screwed up duck-wit, dumb cluck, dipshit.
Let me tell you what you’ve gotta do.
You’ve gotta sue, sue, sue, sue, sue.

Come back from your holiday
burned to a carbon flake.
Never checked up on the ozone-count,
but that’s not your mistake.
The tour operator wasn’t on the ball.
No-one ever said.
And how would you know, unless they tell you so,
whether you’re alive or dead?
You gorge and guzzle and smoke too much
like the adverts say you should,
then you’re suddenly peaky and down in the mouth with,
‘I don’t feel so good.’
Public health and the hospitals
gotta waste a lot of money on you.
So, sue, sue, sue, sue, sue.

Push, push, push. Shove, shove shove,
Got to be a go-getter.
Follow up fashion and make your moves.
Be a trend-setter.
Words on your socks and your joggers and your vest
and in your underwear,
over your backside, across your chest;
logos everywhere.
You walk around looking like an open book,
duller than a banker’s audit.
Pay through the nose, and nobody looks.
How can you afford it?
You’re all washed up and you can’t compete
with vapidly chosen few.
So, sue, sue, sue, sue, sue.

Drink’s too hot, ice too cold.
Take a look at your waistline.
But it’s not your fault ‘cos you were told
you were just going to have a great time.
Weave in and out on the motorway,
coffee between your knees.
Funny how coffee and gravity behave
at ninety-five degrees.
Pop a little poodle in the microwave,
gobble up a burger and fries.
Not a lot of doggy is left to save,
and you’ve just doubled in size.
Heaven knows, can’t find your toes.
So what else can you do
but sue, sue, sue, sue, sue?

Idiot-text on the side of the box;
‘Place food in your mouth.’
‘Please wait till the chainsaw stops
before you wave it about.’
‘Putting on this Batman suit
doesn’t mean you can fly.’
And, ‘Looking down the gun barrel when you shoot
probably means you’ll die.’
But there’s money to be made from being so dumb.
So carry on as before,
and if you survive, when the moment comes
you could make a whole lot more.
Say, “Sorry, but I’m thick as two short planks.”
“Sorry, but I never knew.”
And sue, sue, sue, sue, sue.