There is the stenographer who writes so fast and acc-u-writ
The bailiff who is next to you could move fast too, when he was fit
The witnesses and barristers who have been here e'er since morn'
The blessed, chosen jurors sitting bored and so forlorn.
The guilty, then, is hauled in, hand-cuffs on his blood-stained hands
A rustle and a bustle, then we're all coldly told to stand
There 'pears the “Judge Almighty" in his wig and frighty gown;
We're all suitably astonished to gaze upon this sight so mighty
Then we're all told politely to sit down.
Now the words are spoken, now the words are said,
Mighty words, fighty words, words from the Latin read.
A lunge, a thrust, a parry; the barristers burst forth,
The eloquences mish and mash and harry for all that they are worth.
Then finally, finally, there is order in the court,
The chosen choose to disappear to think what they've been taught.
The guilty stands! He's had enough! He cannot stand another day;
"Just lock me up or set me free!" "What will the jury say?"
Out comes the forlorn foreman, humbly to the room,
Looks the guilty in the eye and delivers him his doom.
The courtroom all fall silent, the players, all, are tense,
The Judge slams down his sentence:
"FINE: FIFTY CENTS!"