“The Don is dead,” the paper read,
And I was reduced to crying,
John Gotti was like me dear old Dad,
Especially when killing or lying
They called Ol’ John the “Teflon Don,”
During his his long and bloody reign,
He wore silk socks, and liked to kill Wops,
But I much prefer to entertain!
(Short instrumental break and dance number)
I must now confess, I snitched on him,
That’s how we Brits get our kicks,
No chance for bail, He sat in jail,
Just stroking his Italian breadstick
He tried to leave the prison walls,
But the court just wouldn't let 'im,
He gave all he had, to a strong prison lad,
In exchange for two spicy meatballs!
But Gotti was a crafty old cod,
He bought a girl's wig with ciggies,
The guards transferred him to the ladies’ jail,
Where he died after getting his jiggies!
Rest in peace, Don Ricardo Jonathan Gotti Emmanuelle
