A song by Richard Thompson.

Any resemblance to any living person is, I’m sure, entirely coincidental.

Fergus Laing is a beast of a man
He stitches up and fleeces
He wants to manicure the world
And sell it off in pieces
He likes to build his towers high
He blocks the sun out from the sky
In the penthouse the champagne’s dry
And slightly gassy

Fergus Laing, he works so hard
As busy as a bee is
Fergus Laing has 17 friends
All as dull as he is
His 17 friends have 17 wives
All the perfect shape and size
They wag their tails and bat their eyes
Just like Lassie

Fergus he builds and builds
Yet small is his erection
Fergus has a fine head of hair
When the wind’s in the right direction

Fergus Laing and his 17 friends

They live inside a bubble
There they withdraw and shut the door
At any sign of trouble
Should the peasants wail and vent
And ask him where the money went
He’ll simply say, it’s all been spent
On being classy

Fergus’ buildings reach the sky
Until you cannot see ‘um
He thinks the old stuff he pulls down
Belongs in a museum
His fits are famous on the scene
The shortest fuse, so cruel, so mean
But don’t call him a drama queen
Like Shirley Bassey

Fergus Laing he flaunts the law
But one day he’ll be wired
And as they drag him off to jail
We’ll all shout, “You’re fired!”

And for something completely different, Richard Thompson is sometimes called England’s Bob Dylan, so here is Scotland’s Bob Dylan, Robin Williamson plays “Like a Rolling Stone”: