O, hark, a fellow talking with aplomb,

His proud out loud monopoly on truth

So certainiy assured it says no wrong

A clutch of decades gone, ahone!, ahone!,

His mouth spoke out so gentlemanly right

These dreadful people, these can be my chum

They – they - can waive my title, and my name

En batch let’s make them buddy up the cream

Bother like pests, like flies invade my green

A dreadful chore, but call me my forename

For goodness sakes, just drop the genuflections,

Let’s see you worming into my affections

Ha! ha! Not likely, scabrous Rumplestiltskins

I’ll let you think I’m human, like you think you are

And you’ll be willing horses on the canal’s shore

I know I’ll see my work will get done better

And with a will; you people are so lame

Made into labour-lovers by me, by my game

This prissy mellow fellow gave assent to call him ‘mum’

And ‘dad’; and gladly we good manered followed suit

The ideal boss he was, old Terry, Bas - [mirrors and smoke]

The times wore a-by at quite a rate, and slowly some new notes

Among our scores and hordes, the castle barriers tumbling down

Not just in Eastern Europe, but also at our jobs in town

The separated plummy self-respecting toff

Inclined away, effectively allowing him to skin a cat

By frowning on high-airs - he claimed our inattention

That awful stupid veneration paid to ‘sir’ beholden

Whose posture is the guy whose money lays each fletton brick

And claims town malls are ‘built by’ him, and not by Pat and Mick,

And never lifted trowel nor made a concrete mix

The thought beyond his temperamental comprehension.

His box of tricks no more demands our fabulous respect

His wiley ways complaisant fellow more than did before

Close-in, on first name terms he weaves more corny, normal,

A boss , a bruiser still, but not so formal

And this is how his tommy shop where truth is sold

Exclusive fancy-packaged, Oxbridge giftwrapping,

Suffers to drain our pockets now, betokening all the while

This ruse that yet betides he rides the gravy-trains,

With easy makeweight manners mocks the common worker’s curse

Our glass remainers empty, he sups nectars furthermore

Fun chummy leadership has spread its cred across the land

But dandy moneybags still levers every bit his scams

As much as Joe the courier sells cheap scents to all the dames

Those arguments in parliaments; all shout, carouse, and booze

Their gas gives a new meaning to “called to the bar”;

Inanely broadcast so are seen for what they really are

Liars and crooks and sharks, and other high-end hoi polloi,

Aristocratic riff-raff, Who’s Who’s few first names

Foreshortened; sailors round the bay on huffs and squalls

The common touch inheriting the idle rich

The candid light of day at last unmasks these better class

Clear dawn has shone anon upon untutored brains

Revealing poops, incompentents, sleep-talkers wombling vain

Thinking they’re born to rule? – No! No! - they think they reign!