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What about the workers, I say
Slog, graft and grind. Work our arses off
And you lot, what do you do?
Bunch of tossers, I say
Living the life of Riley
Parties, celebrations, hunting, singing, dances
All living the high life
All you lords and ladies.

The bloody king is here, as if we cared.
Does it make a difference? Of course it does
We all had to get up even earlier today.
The lot of us – the worker’s collective
And our revolutionary committees
Put on hold while we yes sir, no sir
My madam if you please. Thank you marm
Oh my God it makes me sick.
What we need here is a flipping change.
The king on top and all his poxy nobles.
What have they ever done to deserve their wealth
And status in life? Their station above
Us who work day and night to keep them fed
And clothed and bedded? Have they earned the right?
No bloody chance. Idle, indolent parasites.
We need a change and what I say is
A new king would be no bad thing.
Oh how I hope that that were so.
Is he showing us his favour by being here?
I do not think so. Where’er he might go
There can only be trouble for us poor
We have got to prepare the meals and rooms
Find musicians for their bloody entertainment.
They don’t grow on trees you know
Certainly not in a place like this.
We are as modern as anywhere else
We keep our own chickens and sheep and pigs
But someone still has to go hunting for deer.
And how do you get it back? It’s heavy!
Straw for the floor – at this time of year?
You know how those nobles drink
There is no beer for miles around.
It will take a month for the brewers to replace
The ale and stout and let us not even
Begin to talk about the lack of whisky.

It takes years, you know.
And by God these monied bastards can put it back.
But my friend the porter has got a stash
Of twenty-five-year-old, cask-mellowed
Firewater of the first rank. We’ll be
Up all night. Don’t blame us. It’s a
Crappy job guarding a castle in the cold.
It’s safe enough, even with a war going on,
But who must guard these walls of ours?
Yet still we have to work all day
And so we grab whatever relaxation we can get.
That is why I say we need a change
Of king at least. A better one.
My master perhaps. He is so rarely here
To keep an eye on us we can do pretty much
What we like when he’s gone away to war.
His wife’s a bitch though. A highly attractive
Sexy bitch. All we can do is lust from afar
And know we can not touch her exquisite arse
Or any other point north or south
On that delicious body.
It must be hell being married to her though.
She’s got quite a tongue on her
And leads her man a merry dance.
Poor sap. Strong as he is, brave as a lion
He is no match for her when she’s on the go.
Still I rather fancy him as king
If the present one were to drop dead tonight.
But then you never know. It’s hard
To tell the way that people think.
They can do strange things when circumstances change.
But still I’ll be prepared to go with it.
Down with Duncan. Macbeth for king.
If that were to happen, I think I would sing
And shout it from the rooftops
And the castle battlements. Peace in our time

© Richard Strong, November 2007