The Government
We're clapped-out old milkers,
Our udders are dry.
We don't have the strength
To spit cud in your eye.
We're clapped-out old milkers,
Our teats have been wrung,
The one gift we bring you
Is modified dung.
We're clapped-out old milkers
In a field full of void,
And all of our milkmaids
Are under-employed.
We're clapped-out old milkers
With nowhere to graze.
The boss had a butcher's,
Averted his gaze.
We're clapped-out old milkers,
But credit is due:
The years we were knackered
Were spent milking you.