And still, in spite of all they do, I love the rose of England,
but the cabbages of England leave me cold.
Oh the cabbages of England leave me cold
even though they grow on genuine English mould,
with their caterpillars, and the care with which they fold
nothingness, pale nothingness in their hearts.
Now that the winter of our discontent
is settled on the land, roses are scarce in England, very scarce,
there are none any more.
But look at the cabbages, Oh count them by the score!
Oh aren’t they green. Oh haven’t we, haven’t we spent
a lot of money rearing them -!
Yet the cabbages of England leave me cold
no matter of what sort the cabbage be.