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I'm not an anarchist |
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but I know a man who is |
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He composed this masterpiece |
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about the nouveau stinking riche |
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Of cabbages and future kings |
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and marriage guidance councelings |
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Of geriatrics losing hope |
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in Stephen Patrick's overcoat |
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Excuse my rudery |
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but stuff the juoblee! |
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It's the last tango at the palace |
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Christopher goes down on Alice |
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A make-up girl from Selfridges |
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unaccustomed to such privileges |
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of His Majesty's secret services |
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The kind of secret services |
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usually confined to circuses |
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Excuse my rudery |
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but stuff the jubilee! |
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Princess A to Princess Bea |
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and all their work for charity |
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Every royal lion' s head |
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on every boiled and frying egg |
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And every sodding polo team |
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in Hello ! bloody magazine |
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And if you feel this story lacks |
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the royal seal on candle wax |
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Reel to reels of scuzzy facts |
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of dodgy deal and income tax |
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String me up from Traitor's Gate |
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stick my head upon a stake |
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And if you feel this story sucks |
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that's probably because I made it up |
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I didn' t really hitch a lift |
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to Windsor Castle bearing gifts |
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And I can prove it wasn' t me |
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I was on a stage in Germany |
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I've always loved the Oueenie Mum |
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her daughters and her daughter' s sons |
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From Princess A to Princess Bea |
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And all the Royal Family |
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Stuff the jubilee! |
