Sing a Song of Fifty Quid

Sing a song of fifty quid, a pocket full of poo (as in manure),

Four and twenty mushrooms, enough to make a stew.

On top of every other job the maid peeled and chopped and cooked,

Then placed a dish before the king, her labours overlooked.

The king was in his counting house, counting out his money,

There never was enough for meat which he thought rather funny.

He dabbled in the stock-exchange and kept his piggy-bank,

Piling up his dosh each day which kept him busy whilst he drank.

The queen stayed in the parlour with her pastries and her honey,

Her favourite being orange cakes with topping oh so runny.

She too wondered why their savings dipped a little day-by-day,

Despite their big investment in the prince’s MBA.

The maid was in the garden waiting for her love,

The prince, complete with bags of gold, arrives to claim his dove.

His heart was hers and hers was his, more precious than any throne,

Together, with his parents’ cash, they left to set up home.