Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
What mad sod set thee alight?
What is this life, if, full of care,
We can't afford to perm our hair?
I leaned upon a coppice gate
Because my legs were knackered, mate.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Will get your picture in the press.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever
But this is made of imitation levver.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
You do not need to count the bloody sheep.
They also serve who only stand and wait,
But none of them's been left a tip to date.
I am the captain of my soul
But still I have to draw the dole.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings,
You've not been betting on an English innings.
Where ignorant armies clash by night,
You'll get some friendly fire, right?