It’s all about class

Psychotically wired
With an unfeeling air
UKIP and the Tories
They are everywhere
They want the hounds barking
The horses in flight
They want badgers culled
In the dead of the night

They want foxes chased
And torn into strips
They want deers a running
On prejudiced trips
It’s The Lord and the master
The tunics of red
Run down the peasants
The gaffer it’s said

The plough man the hobnail
The gals in the street
The primitive classes
That so feel the heat
Those sat in front of the
Of the massive TV
With a tankard of lager
And chips on their knee

Toffs from the unreal world
Somewhere below
Where a pure silver spoon in the mouth
Has to go
A fat light blue tie
Bought From Savile Row
And it’s to the tack room
That you have to go

A gardener and chauffeur
Foie gras with tea
Let’s go to the pub
Come on come with me
Let’s chase a few Hares
Let’s bag a few trout
Let’s chase a few foxes
Around a bout

UKIP and the light blues
Are soulless and grey
They walk and they talk
In their back slapping way
They visit the stables
And drink Noilly Prat
Drive a bottle green Jag
And act like a star