The Queen is dead, long live the King With barely pause for breath Or chance for anyone to ask If this is for the best The new PM, not camera-shy Jumps aboard the royal ride She wants those headline stories King Charles the Third, King of the Tories And old in years but new in post Big Ears agreed to be her host As they set out to tour the land Of crowds policed with heavy hand Where protest is all but banned (Such a heinous caper To hold aloft a piece of paper Or call out your response To the presence of a sweaty nonce) Meanwhile, back in Parliament The doors stay firmly closed So no one hears the argument Against a king imposed Or his parade’s flamboyance In a time of crisis Or his tax avoidance And the powers that allow this (Three hundred million quid God forbid Remain in royal coffers Received with little thanks, cap doffers) No effective government Since Spaffer’s slow departure The new Tory incumbent Threatens even harder And mourning not withstanding Has plans to keep rich standing While the poor just quietly fall It’s what she would’ve wanted, after all
He inherits the title Inherits the land Inherits police Who with firm hand Remove any protest At his quick accession There’ll be no dissent At this royal procession
He inherits the title Inherits the power The proceeds of empire His to devour He inherits the poor The homeless, the weak Whose faith in the monarch Is honest but bleak
He inherits the title Inherits the wealth To him it’s tax-free As they sing to his health Happy and glorious God save the King He doesn’t owe you A damn fucking thing
They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey Their royal bones are on display Respect, obey them sat on thrones Respect, obey their royal bones
They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey Hold fast your stones Now’s not the day Now’s not the day, hold fast your stones Respect, obey their royal bones They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey
They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey Their royal bones are on display The speaker drones, respect, obey Hold fast your stones, now’s not the day Respect, obey their royal bones They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey
They’re sat on thrones Respect, obey The speaker drones, respect, obey The priest intones, respect, obey The pauper groans Respect, obey Hold fast your stones, now’s not the day Their royal bones are on display Their royal bones They’re sat on thrones Now’s not the day Respect, obey
She used her wealth and privilege to bring an end to poverty When George Floyd died she led the nation when they took the knee She made the toffs stop hunting The foxes hung out bunting She even stopped the Tories from shitting in the sea
She used her wealth and privilege to pay the nation’s power bill And made an NHS fit for a queen if she fell ill She closed food banks by the score ‘Cause they weren’t needed any more And left the royal parks to the commons in her will
She used her wealth and privilege to make equality routine She said this nation has no use for a nuclear submarine She gave back all the loot Gained in colonial pursuit And when she died they dried their eyes and sang God Save The Queen
Do they want the pub boarded up? Do they want the chip shop shut? Who’ll bake the bread when the baker’s bust? In the high street they let turn to dust
You’re gonna have to go to Tesco Get a couple of cans to go They want you to go to Tesco Tesco’s where they want you to go
When you’re keeping warm in the library Or the café with a two-hour cup of coffee ‘Til you need to leave this table, sorry That’s not where they want you to be
They want you to go to Tesco Tesco’ll have their gas bill dough They want you to go to Tesco Tesco’s where they want you to go
A nation of shopkeepers shutting up shop When the gas price rises just won’t stop And the Government’s asleep at the wheel Tell me, how does it feel
When all that’s left is to go to Tesco Like it used to be but somehow less so They want you to go to Tesco Tesco’s where they want you to go
Like Boris Johnson gaslighting you about your gas bill, the myth of hard work is that if capitalism isn’t working for you it’s because you’re not working hard enough, and nothing to do with the whole crooked system being engineered to make very rich people even richer at your expense. Prime Minister in Waiting and co-author of Britannia Unchained, Liz Truss, is precisely one of those people who benefit from you believing that all you need to succeed is a little hard work and this country’s failing infrastructure is your fault for not grafting quite hard enough; her role after all is to protect the private sector and big business at all costs and not to look after you, no matter what she says. Don’t let her get away with it.
John Henry had his hammer, Stakhanov a jackhammer too But Liz says that the British worker is an idler through and through Now, hard work killed John Henry, and hard work will kill you too So, when Liz says you need more hard graft, you know what you have to do
Tell her we’ll do a good day’s work, but for a good day’s pay And when the union comes calling, we’ll take our work away ‘Cause we won’t break our backs for a boss who won’t pay tax And we’ll do our stint together and our way, oh yeah We’ll do our stint together and our way
John Henry, he built the railroad, Stakhanov, he mined for coal But Liz says that the British worker prefers life on the dole Now, hard work killed John Henry, and hard work will kill you too So, when Liz says the nation lacks skill and application, you know what you have to do
Tell her we’ll do a good day’s work, but for a good day’s pay And when the union comes calling, we’ll take our work away ‘Cause we won’t break our backs for a boss who won’t pay tax And we’ll do our stint together and our way, oh yeah We’ll do our stint together and our way
John Henry was buried in the morning, Alexei raised a glass But Liz says that the British worker needs a kick up the arse Now, hard work killed John Henry, and hard work will kill you too So, when Liz comes promising some levelling up, you know what you have to do
Tell her we’ll do a good day’s work, but for a good day’s pay And when the union comes calling, we’ll take our work away ‘Cause we won’t break our backs for a boss who won’t pay tax And we’ll do our stint together and our way, oh yeah We’ll do our stint together and our way, oh yeah We’ll do our stint together and our way
I got a lift to the food bank from Iain Duncan Smith Driving a vintage British sports car A Morgan Plus Four powered by a German engine Goes from nought to Brexit in under sixty seconds “I say” he said to me “Fine day for a spin” “Isn’t the food bank just a wonderful thing” “And now there’s even more of them than ever”
He had the radio tuned to LBC A phone-in about prices And the cost-of-living crisis He said “We’ll have to suck it up, I’m afraid” “It’s not our fault there’s a war in Ukraine” “And I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s a price worth paying.” As we passed the war memorial And poppies on the road signs I tried to say that his opinion probably wasn’t mine But with the top down he missed what I was saying
I got a lift to the foodbank from Iain Duncan Smith Driving a vintage British sports car With a manual gearbox (sovereignty over transmission) And an active exhaust in full hot air position So how come he happened to be going my way? Well, that’s where you’ll find all his constituents these days
Steve White & The Protest Family 