Class Action

 

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.