War and the Drinking Classes If work be the curse of the drinking classes Lay down your tools and lift your glasses If not, then leave those pints of ale That you cherish like some holy grail And make your way to the recruiting centre But be sure to pray before you enter Lest divine intervention make you refuse To pledge allegiance to the Crown or even confuse Your civil rights with those of the Army A fruitless task which turns sane men barmy But I digress from the filthy habits of a nation And the dispossessed who accept their station Who “bow so low the knee” as Lord Byron once said Who, faced with derision, merely turn their head From the sight of those of superior breeding Who feel no need to learn from reading For they were born to be leaders of men Though many prove worthless time and again They are also a group so fond of drinking Who cry “play on” while the Titanic is sinking Oh, blessèd land still divided by class When will true democracy come to pass? Drink on while others reply to the question Or merely make some supercilious suggestion This country torn from its eastern roots Faces west yet yearns to put military boots On foreign forces fighting for an arbitrary fence Between the “west” and Eurasia – at the latter’s expense If drink be the food of war, drink on Until the last vestiges of civilisation are gone.
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