There is a shitty, crooked dwarf
within the Élysée;
greasy, sweaty palms by night
and platform shoes by day.
This scumbag bleeds his country dry;
takes bribes from millionaires
and when the paysans ask him, 'Why?'
'Gippos! Fault's all theirs!'
'Let's clean the country of this dross,
woman, child and man!
We'll make la patrie pure again!'
(It worked for old Pétain).
Laval's ghost, and Gobineau's
crack their sides with glee.
(but just for you and me).
You wicked, vicious, little man.
And France, you're guilty too;
you sit and stuff your cheese and wine,
'Alors? Et qui êtes-vous?'
You'll strike for pay, the working week,
the rights close to your heart.
Manifester pour les autres?
You couldn't give a fart.
No more brie, no, not for me.
You fascists pay a price:
contempt and bile, scorn and hate -
you Vichy-loving lice.
© Simon M Hunter 2010