A golden apple hangs aloft,
corrupt flesh - rotten to the core
and when it falls, it lays a while
until the vermin come to gnaw.
A bloody tide, ebbs and flows
against Britannia’s exposed shore
while God’s still lapping his sinners up
In distant, godless, fucking war.
A Tory with a mouth of lies
feeds the rich and damns the poor -
choking on his ill-begotten gains,
I hope the coins stick in his craw.
To rid themselves of opposition
they cook a rancid meal of law,
then feed it to the innocents
who lay, prostrated, on the floor.
Gordon, Tony, Ed and Dave,
flirting with the Grantham whore,
whom we cannot speak against,
but told to cow and bow in awe.
I am a kind and gentle lamb
but even I can take no more.
I want to curse and rant and rave
and let them hear my Lion’s roar.
For when they sit in gilded glory,
totting up their Bonus Score –
while you are counting bedrooms
in your council house of mud and straw -
remember strength and unity,
the things our ancestors fought for.
Stand proud you grandchildren of Albion -
Thus spake the hardcore troubadour.