Despite allegations at him hurled,
The fat fraud’s been circuiting the world,
With a ‘ticket, and a ‘tasket,
A whopping currency basket,
A heist so big, Dr M’s hair did curl.
It wouldn’t do; a million or three,
It had to be billions going to me.
Look after Boss was the remit,
Beyond that, the sky’s the limit.
All one had to do was remain free.
For six glorious years all was fine:
A yacht, a plane, women, fine wine.
Until the cracks began,
Which the Edge duly fanned
Into the blaze that became May 9.
With one voice the people had spoken,
Finally, the Bee-N got broken;
Umno-cat was belled;
The mighty were felled;
From slumber, the voters had woken.
Shocked, the Boss could run but could’t flee.
“It’s all someone’s fault, not me” wailed he.
As for Jho,
He laid Low
And deeply dreaded the IGP.
The plump pirate planned to run forever,
So far so good, but never say never.
St Kitts was a bust,
Macau bit the dust,
A haven was what he needed, if ever.
The Boss himself had little or no shame,
To Sharol, even Jho, he assigned blame.
While playing his fiddle,
The country got diddled.
In court, he now has his fair share of fame.
Jho thought he’d everyone paid for and bought.
But all his best laid plans had come to naught.
The moral of this story
Is positively hoary:
A crime isn’t wrong until one gets caught.
The global noose for Jho is tightening,
And in nowhere is it ever brightening.
Like this plain rhyme,
It will take time.
Alas, poor Jho, it must be frightening!
For Fatso, all roads are leading to jail,
That’s enough to make even Rosmah quail.
He will only know his fate after he loses some weight,
During the time he’s imprisoned without bail.