Charivari

In April will the Cockney Sparrows sing,
'Yer tight-wad Bill, wiv yer muvver's ring'?
Will we eat cake, while the privileged sport
and gossip about Sarah - 'a bit of a sort'?
Will we cheer 'Arry, 'e's good forra larf,
a Nazi Uniform, we like that, not 'arf!
And the voices raised in the outer East End
will bellow 'Jruslum' and her victorious send
while we wrap our scoundrelly selves in St George
and the sickly romantics will raise up our gorge
with piffle about 'ow he loved his bootiful mum'
and that ''orse-faced bitch is no better some.'
There'll be crying and excess emotion in spades,
we'll pretend we can enter their palisades,
while they curl their infamous stiff upper lip,
their head so uneasy the crown might slip,
we'll forget all our troubles for the sake of this joke,
this bread, this circus, all mirrors and smoke.