Up I rose, my lads, an’ I heard yer
sayin’: Up he goes!
Up like a bloomin’ little Excelsior
In his Sunday clothes!
Up he goes, up the bloomin’ ladder
about to the giddy top!
Who’d ever have thought it of that lad, a
pasty little snot! —
Never you mind, my lads, I left you
a long, long way behind.
You’ll none of you rise in the world like I did;
an’ if you did, you’d find
it damn well wasn’t worth it,
goin’ up an’ bein’ refined;
it was nowt but a dirty sell, that’s all,
a damn fraud, underlined.
They’re not any better than we are
the upper classes - they’re worse.
Such bloomin’ fat-arsed dool-owls,
they aren’t even fit to curse!
There isn’t a damn thing in’em,
they’re as empty as empty tins;
they haven’t the spunk of a battle-twig,
an’ all they can think of is sins.
No, there’s nowt in the upper classes
as far as I can find;
a worse lot of jujubey asses
than the lot I left behind.
They’ll never do a thing, boys,
they can’t, they’re simply fused.
So if any of you’s live wires, with wits
to use, they’d better be used.
It there’s anything got to be done, why
get up an’ do it yourselves!
Though God knows if you’re any better,
sittin’ there in rows on your shelves!
An’ if you’re not any better,
if you’ve none of you got more spunk
than they’ve got in the upper classes,
why, let’s all do a bunk.
We’re not fit for the earth we live on,
we’re not fit for the air we breathe.
We’d better get out, an’ make way for
the babes just beginning to teethe.