From the North Sea, wild and grey
the horde bore down on Scarborough Bay.
I overheard one of them say 
"We're following the money."

Like a Viking raiding force
they'd moved their enterprise onshore
to probe beneath the Yorkshire moors
for oil and gas and money.

A mighty fleet of high power cars
overran the Scarborough Spa.
I heard them, wassailing at the bar
thirsty for the money.

Men that work in gas and oil
come to portion up the spoils
of acid streams and toxic soil
poisoned by their money.

Deaf to demonstrators yelping
about the polar ice caps melting
they blindly row towards a healthy
rake-off on their money.

The peaceful villages of Yorkshire
will suffer many years of torture.
Hills will clang with drills like warfare
as they suck the money.

When the homeland is attacked
patriots must rise and act,
resist the marauders, drive them back.
It's people versus money.

Reckless in their haste to burrow
out the filth,  they'll gull tomorrow's
children, trade deep wells of sorrow
for a heap of money,

but when the flow becomes stagnation 
they'll go to pillage other nations,
leave a trail of devastation
following the money.