Born To Rule
In the term we slept it off in the sheets
of an elegant Etonian dream.
Through the hols we drank
through trolleys of Bolly
in our chauffeured limousines.
Drunk for ages on the finest wines,
well-heeled, well-protected,
and dressing up right to the nines -
ho-ho -
Boris, this Brown strips the shirts from our backs,
no old school cap,
not one of our chaps -
we gotta get back to our School:
'cause toffs like us, Boris,
we were Born To Rule.
London, let him in,
he wants to be your friend,
wants to take some Big Decisions.
Just wrap your lips round a giant Pimm's,
and clap your hands at his vengeance.
Together with ties and old top hats,
with your pals from Pop, Boris,
turn the clocks back –
though you're awkward, wear a spare tyre,
oh Boris you're my fair-haired and county squire –
so show us all your Etonian zeal,
I want to be beguiled,
oh I want your public school appeal.
Behind you, Alice-banded power-clones
squeal at your great charade,
and comb your hair now that you're their Mayor,
and the noise rises. You're hurrahed.
And the Tory sharks think you're such a lark -
as you muddle through your speech,
they're blissed.
They wanna fly with you, Boris,
on the Tory right,
with your sparkling artifice.
Hah!
Hyde Park crammed with token zeroes
on a 4X4 power drive –
everybody's out on the streets tonight
for your playing-fields and your pride.
In Outer London will they live with your madness?
Dave loves you with all the gladness
in his soul.
Ho-ho.
Some day, he hopes – maybe 2010 –
he's gonna win the great race
in his boater and his dicky-bow,
sing of the School -
'cause toffs like us, Boris,
we were Born To Rule.
