This poem is about the murder of 18-year-old, gay, autistic student Steven Simpson – and the appalling miscarriage of justice when his killer was prosecuted. You can read a news report giving more information here; and the resolution adopted by TUC Disabled Workers’ Conference here. The poem imagines what might happen if the tables were turned on reactionary judges!

I heard the local judge was having a party at his flat
I thought that sounded tasty, I’ll have a bit of that
There’ll probably be some posh nosh and a bit of legal chat
I hadn’t been invited, but who cares about that?

So I gatecrashed his little soiree, got stuck in to the grub
Nattered with the judicial types, drank champers in the tub
It certainly beat another night down our dingy local pub
But then it got a bit out of hand and therein lies the rub

I got talking to His Honour and he seemed a decent sort
Regaling us with stories of happy days in court
But then he got on to a case which left me so distraught
A young lad’s murder was ‘horseplay’ or so the scumbag thought

“If poofs and weirdos must have parties, what do they expect
When normal people turn up, they’re certain to object
No need to be excessive, the sentence is correct
A couple of years inside, a short while to reflect”

I thought I’d have some horseplay, so tore off his wig and gown
Scrawled “judge boy” on his body and “I like sending people down”
I doused him in oil and champers and set light to the clown
Then ran away while others tried to smother the flames down

I didn’t mean to kill him – it was good-natured horseplay
My defence brief calls it “a stupid prank that went wrong in a bad way”
So I reckon I’ll be alright in court and get a shortish prison stay
And unlike my poor victim, get to party again some day

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