There's a maniacal set to you jaw
You are the new Conservative sage
Part human and part skeletor
Strange, thin Jesuitical bloke
Tried to screw up pensions, sacked by Tony Blair
Now back in the fold – a masterstroke
You want to take money from the poor
The largess of the Welfare State
Always offended your moral rules
You were designed for the Poor Laws, mate
Dishing out gristle, or watery gruel
You like to spout the latest jargon
A right-wing discourse we've heard before
They'll only blow the money at Argos
They are so undeserving, these poor
Middle-class prejudice, current still
The mum's on drugs, the boy can barely talk
Your master's voice comes from Notting Hill
Cameron speaks it, you walk the walk
The money's gone, blown on bonuses
Shame. Now you spout your sterile creed
Like a weird, cracked conduit –
Meanness is the other side to greed
Lace doilies in the Field house
A clock ticks. Shut up. Don't make a sound
Don't talk. Be as quiet as a mouse
You – at the edge of the playground
We can only speculate, Frank
That your mother did not hold her boy
You were destined for insurance, or a bank
You envy what the poor possess – joy
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