Those FT monkeys covered in banknote
Have champagne and brandy on tap
They're up to their eyeballs in franc notes
We're up to our noses in crap
Those gorilla-mouthed fakers
Are longing to see us all rot
The gentry may lose a few acres
But we lose the little we've got
Revolution, it's more like a ruin
They're all stuffed with glorious food
They think about nothing but screwing
And we are the ones who get screwed
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