It is a tragedy, my dear,
And on a shocking scale:
The Britons have gone off their beer,
The Britons hate their ale.
What are they drinking, Johnny Bull?
Why such a steep decline?
Their mouths, my dears, are simply full
Of foul and foreign wine.
Britons lie beneath the loam,
The beerists, dear, are dead.
The country does not rule the foam;
The country has no head.
The ale trade? Have they throttled it?
Oh tell me not, I pray.
My dear, the sots have bottled it,
Thrown openers away.
Perhaps the youth, fresh from their cots,
Will turn again to hops?
My dear, they're drinking vodka shots
And downing alcopops.
Is there no hope? Oh tell me this –
Must Britain's pride be sunk?
Ah well, at least they're on the piss:
Great Britons still get drunk.