O bellowing cows lowing ‘ere in our ‘eads
these painted visions upon the glass do beckon
A sirens call did rend the air
Whilst toad-faced weasels reckon
sellin’ us our woeful woes
And woe betide the eagle looking right to us
While that toad-faced weasel smiles
with pockets full
And in his mouth death does grin with tombstone teeth beetlin’
from putrid gums
that bismirch our politics
Between the stench of his teeth
writhes the lore he does scribe
each word a curse upon our little island

And it has been said we are the sheep
if not with the angry herd
that stampede
and fly the flags for patriotic passion
But from me, one lowly sheep
I am telling you
That I can smell the bullshit.

Authors note:

I apologise to any toads and weasels for using their likeness as an insult.