John O'Gaunt

Never mind the carve-up of the welfare state, the destruction of the British industrial base, the scattering of communities, and the downfall of the public transport network - we've got a new truck.

My master is a huntsman he's the finest in the land
His stock is made of silkworms and his tactics underhand
Of habitat his destrier his clothes of christian aid
He leans towards the obvious with his verbal cannonade

What's gone wrong what's the matter John
Pick up your shield and pull your beaver down
What's gone wrong what's the matter John
Me and the lads are fighting for the crown

My master fights a conflict which he does not understand
It's five parts Mary Magdelane and five parts Vietnam
His jacket leather bristles studs and slogans painted zeal
Though his hat is made of puffballs his boots are made of seals

My master speaks in ignorance of colour creed and class
The hand that tilts at windmills would rather tilt a glass
He tells us man made power, tells us man created pain
And Christie made elastoplast to make them whole agaln
Don't give me swimming pools and telephones
Just give me power eaten cold and off the bone

Intro. E E Abm A
Verse E Abm A
Chorus A B A B E Abm A