Bend a will to fit your need and wink your lying eye,
Sing a song of sixpence and a pocket full of rye,
Drown the loud dissenters at the bottom of the sea,
And lose your home and savings all because of me,
The king is in his counting house counting out his cash,
There’s less than he pretended hidden in his stash,
But he won’t let you see what goes on behind closed doors,
‘Cos he’s too busy lying and taking all of yours,
And when it comes to truth he’s purposefully vague,
He doesn’t want to scare you with stories of the plague,
The truth is just a story told a different way,
And soon as it gets warm, well the plague will go away,
Necks under the knee and boots upon the street,
He’d rather watch it burn than ever cede defeat,
The people let him off the hook and blame it on Beijing,
Now wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king