Any Old Irony?

At the vanguard of a juddering caravan
Hurriedly galloping down a dirt track
Six furtive figures, crooked as Caliban
Smuggling hope to the land of the claque
Weary, hoarse riders, irksomely blistered
Spent from a decade a-roving the road
Frigging a jig for our brothers and sisters
Stark raving madrigals by the cartload
Without trepidation I sing in laudation
Vocal salute to all travelling tinkers
Vagabond nation joined in congregation
United free thinkers cry from the bryony
«Any old irony?»
Come one, come all to our travelling circus
Cast off your cares for the painted parade
Whirl down the wynd like dervish berserkers
If life hands us lemons we’ll make lemonade
Maybe Jay’s smashed), drumming up passion
Scarring forever with each brisk tattoo
Bean’s in the place so bass is in fashion
Killing us all with his amp set on 2
Watch out for Ridley the Raucously Tiddly
Unplugged he’s no Dr. Jekyll, so Hyde
Desperate Dan Ramsey deft fingers diddle
Watching The Match on a telly stage-side
The cat on the fiddle, Miss Georgie Biddle
Keeping it reeling with her fugue electric
Stuck in the middle I’ll rhyme you a riddle
Irate and eclectic my cry from the bryony
«Any old irony?»
Come one, come all to our travelling circus
Cast off your cares for the painted parade
Whirl down the wynd like dervish berserkers
If life hands us lemons we’ll make lemonade