With apologies to Anon

Sing a song for thick ponce,
His pockets full of loot,
Four and twenty billions
Robbed by the brute.

When he throws a tantrum
His minions all do sing,
Oh isn’t it a vulgar farce
So fitting for this king!

The king is in his palaces
Counting lucre dirty,
The queen is at Sandown Park
Running the 3.30.

The simpletons tug forelocks,
Toadies creep and crawl.
When up rise the people
Monarchy will fall.

Picture: pinterest