Hey, diddle, dicey, Chancy’s on the town
where some like white bread and some like brown.
If you want it buttered, it’ll meet with a frown
‘cause Chancy heads the money ring, approved by the
Crown.
Our Chancellor’s a bonny lad; he’s said to be nice.
You might trust him once, but you wouldn’t trust him
twice:
his budget is his cup of tea, some say his nest of
lice
breeding easy fleas on the Bank of England mice
who won’t stand down
before they flop and drown
when Chancy floods the town
with his frown.
We’re glad he’s not in Scotland; too many quotes
from Hume
would give a touch of cachet in the face of doom
when he snatches at his lineage, the Lords of Boom,
as the money-pile he’s riding on slides down to the
tomb
that’s the economic bust.
Will he lust in the dust,
or will he just rust?
Yes, he must.
Oh, no, he won’t; he’s up again! He’s in his proper
place
aside of the Prime Minister, aslant of the Mace,
which he thinks he’s ace at wielding when the EU’s
on his case;
he shams a market fight, but needs more to save his
face
in the resurrection game.
All’s aflame.
Such is fame.
Shame!
So hey, diddle, fiddle, Chancy’s always round the
town,
where some snatch white bread and turn away the
brown.
They always have it buttered and ignore every frown
as Chancy tweaks the money ring.
All fall down.
