The Magnificient and Inglorious Tale of King Nebuchudnezzar:

King Nebuchudnezzar lived in Peckham
He didn’t speak Hebrew, he didn’t speak Arabic, nich de deutch spreken
He was from Peckham, spoke bloody English init, I reckon
He never felt threatened or kept a weapon to fight the aggression in Peckham
He kept himself to himself, played tetris and zelda and tekken
Ate Kentucky Fried Chicken
Believe me, this is no word of a lie
King Nebachadnezar lived in Peckham…Peckham Rye…New Cross, basically.

Honestly, I fucking met him, in Peckham
Used to go shopping in the Co-op
You not see him?
Weighed down with carrier bags,
stuffed with orange peel, dirty dish-cloths and rags
Wore the same clothes everyday
Muttered to himself in a funny way
He’d come up to you and say
‘I am King Nebuchudnezar!’
And you’d go, ‘Okay’.

You never met him? Round Deptford way.
Really cheered up your day
He was Royalty for Christ’s sake
With his black leather tam for a crown
Long black dreadlocks flowing down
Some fishnet vest thing for a regal gown
Those weren’t jeans but ‘breaches’ he’d swear down
Go about his business round town
Hawking a bit of green for a bit of brown
The prince of paupers, this court jester clown
Take the white pill to go up, take the blue pill to go down
The man was a character, he’d wipe away your frown
He’d make friends with anyone, straight, bi or lezza
Fuck’s sake he was King Nebuchadnezzer

‘No you’re not’ said this bloke at his stall
‘You’re not King Nebuchudnezzar, you don’t look like him at all, not that I know what he looks like, but I’m guessing whatever he did look like, didn’t look anything like you’
‘And what sort of stall is this anyway, bits of scrap metal and C90 cassettes
Some string and some pritt stick and an LP of ‘It Must’ve Been Love’ by Roxette
With your airs and your graces, you ain’t made it yet, mate
If anything you’ve fallen through the net, mate
How much you wanna bet, mate
You’re a few engines short of a jet, mate,
One landlord short of a let, mate
Few quid short of national debt, mate
One singer short of a duet, mate
A Russian short of a roulette, mate
A playing card short of a set, mate
A bishop to knight short of a check mate
And that is my number one pet hate
Liars like you make me sick, mate
Giving it the big I am, you’re a dick, mate –
By the way, how much for the pritt stick?’

Coz folk resented being subjects
To a self-proclaimed once King of Egypt
Could’ve been worse, could’ve said he was Batman or Batfink or Batgirl
Or Bagpuss or Bigfoot or a giant cinammon whirl
Christ, he didn’t profess to be Godzilla
Why would he? He was blatantly King Nebuchdnezzar

But our man didn’t want to fess up
For he was King Nebuchdnezzar
A direct ascendant to Rameses
A blue blood line from the Red Sea
Via the Lion Of Judah
The Great Ruler of Zion and Persia
If you traced the line of dynasty
From the hills of Saqquara to Akram
You’ll find that you end up in Peckham
With a man playing tetris and tekken
Watching X Factor and eating Fried Chicken
Having a Tennants, chilling out and finger-lickin’
Watching some pornography with big dick in
On the weekends he might get a kicking, sure
From the Millwall fans effing and frikkin, sure
But by all this he would not be stricken
In fact, if anything, his skin would thicken
It would’ve been easier, I reckon, to say he was Charles Dickens
But why would he? He didn’t wear top hat and blazer
No! For he was King Nebuchudnezzer

However, one morning, he received a letter
From the social, they said that he’d better
Get in contact with them,
They thought his general character colourful and quaint
But they were concerned for his welfare, you see, they’d received some complaints
You cannot simply go round town calling yourself a king when you ain’t
Well, as you can imagine, a King does not take lightly to such measures
This ain’t no ordinary King but King Nebuchudnezzer
He would not be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure – he was the Majesty!

So he holed himself up in his squat of a castle
And the men in white coats did deliver a parcel
Of gas and of fumes and they kicked down his door
And they pulled at his dreads and his crown hit the floor
See, this King had never been shackled before
And he wondered aloud how he’d broken the law
‘Do you not know who I am, have I not told you before?
I’m King Nebuchudnezzer, of that I am sure!’
‘Shut it ya whore!’ (stamp foot)
That’s when they struck him, over the head…across his cheek…broke his jaw
And they carried him aloft out his squat through the door
And a crowd there had gathered and they bayed for more
And that prick from before, he piped up and he cawed
‘That’s right, off you pop, we don’t want your like round Peckham no-more!
With your airs and your graces and your tales of folklore!
We’re a humble lot round here, we work hard, do our chores
Why should you live by your own rules and your own sodding laws? Fuck off!’

So they threw the great King into the back of a van
And they watched as they drove him away to the san
To the loony bin, the laughing academy, the funny farm
Where he would be safe now and come to no harm
And could call himself what the fuck he liked quite frankly

And they beat him and punched him and pumped him with pills
And they slapped him and grilled him to drive out his ills
But he was resilient was the King, and he took shocks from the taser
‘By the hairs on my chin, I am still the King Nezzer!’
But his gown was now white, his boudoir was now padded
And his teeth were all gone and his face was now blooded
But it wasn’t their fault, the NHS was underfunded
He’d been sectioned at a time when they were very understaffed
They couldn’t give him their attention, they couldn’t put in the graft
They just gave him his shots till he dribbled and laughed
Like the rest of them there, as they cried in the dark
For their mothers and fathers and kindred and gods
As they howled and they barked and they begged there like dogs
For a halcyon past, for the way that things were
When they gave all their love and got love in return
To their man, from their woman, to their friend, from their kin
Well we used to be kings in a time long ago
In a land far away, where the Eskimo roams
And Red Indians play in Aboriginal homes
See, things were simpler back then, and oh how god knows
How the modern day man seeks the Emperor’s clothes
As he’s picked at by society vultures and crows
A bit at a time at a time at a time
Till there’s nothing there left, not even a dime
Just a hollowed out man and a death-knell chime

See the funny thing is this, is that King Neb died
Yeah I know, from what I heard, it was suicide
He’d had well enough, couldn’t stem the tide
So he stashed all his pills and od’d, I must confide
I didn’t think it would be that easy inside
To have defied all the nurses who tried to abide by the rules
But hey ho, no-one cried, he never had a girlfriend or a blushing bride
Not even a best friend or estranged child, nada

What’s even more funny is this,
Months went by, in fact, even years
And Deptford market traders, it appears
Seem to have missed him. Oh how ironic,
To have sold him that green stuff, that hydroponic
While he sat there at home blazing and playing on Sonic
Something chronic, moronic, borderline catatonic
‘He weren’t so bad’, they’d say, ‘kept himself to himself.
He professed to be a King or a Lord or an elf,
I forget which, a witch? No, he was a funny old bloke
He once offered me a lager, offered me a toke
I miss that old fucker, I wonder where’s he gone
Probably back to his homeland somewhere in Babylon –
King Nebuchadnezzar, that was the fucker!
Huh ha ha huh ha huh ha ha huh ha ha
Yes, I remember, he’d walk down the way,
With a how-do-you-do and hip-hip-hooray.
I’m King Nebuchudnezzar, he would frequently say
Beat
We don’t get characters like that round here no-more
Nah, it’s all rather quiet and a bit of a bore
Life’s much less interesting without the King of Folklore
The King of the carrier bags, the King of the Rough
Would it have really mattered if we’d just gone, “Fair Enough,
You’re King Nebuchudnezzer, take it easy, hang tough. Safe.”’

Well fuck ’em, this is Peckham, this is China Town
This ain’t no place for tears or regrettable sounds
There’s no moral to this story, it is what it is
Something for the adults, something for the kids
Something for the Royal Mews, something for the skids
Something for the gooners, something for the yids
Take what you will, take what you might, take what you think you should
Take a little bit of your individuality back, I know King Neb fucking would
For what are we if not but Kings and Queens in a massive, giant snow globe
What is a man if not the king or master or courtier of his wardrobe
Wear what you will, say what you might, be all you truly can
And heed from this cautionary tale of this tragic little man
So old, so dirty, so sick and tired but so very photogenic
It’s such a shame he had to be so very schizophrenic
Now he lies in a grave but his soul it is saved and it lifts itself to heaven
Here lies Clyde Williams 1969 to 2011
I’m sure that’s not how he wants to be remembered, now that he is dead
So I’ll just say,
‘We’d like you back my old friend, if that’s alright, King Neb’.