Rigs Of The Time

No wonder that butter’s nigh on a quid a pound,
See the rich corporate farmers how they ride up and down.
You ask them the reason, they’ll say: «Bonny lass,
It’s the Commission in Brussels have taxed the cows' grass.»
Honesty’s all out of fashion,
These are the rigs of the time.
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.
Now Home Secretaries, I must bring 'em in
With their society obedient at every turn
At picking the Peach, pulls Towers to the ground,
Who needs the NF when there’s SPG around.
Honesty’s all out of fashion,
These are the rigs of the time.
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.
Now absentee landlords, I must bring 'em in
With their sky-high rents and they think it no sin.
Their ceilings fall in, the walls run with slime,
But they’re for blacks or for Irish so no-one really minds.
Honesty’s all out of fashion,
These are the rigs of the time.
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.