Squirrel me red.

Squirrel me red.

Ah, but for the Gray

With the pox

We would see the beauty

Of the Red

It is long gone now

In all but the north

Where the Kings of Northumbria

The Prince Bishops

The scourge of the Kings

Of England once lived

And ruled

Killed off now

By the pox

The politics of progress

The fifth column

Is a rodent

What remains

Of the ancients

Lies under car parks

In tombs on Holy Island

Buried among the Acorns

Where the sickly Reds

Line dance

One step ahead of disaster

The pox has them on the run

Like all the old Kings

Pushed out

To the extremities

Finding little peace

In a little piece of England

Backs to the wall

Waving the flag

For old values

Joining the Scottish Reds

In a last-stand

Against the Americanisation

Of the mainland

The rise of the Grey

And for all of its beauty

And its shiny red coat,

The fall of the true

Blueblood Red

Is nigh.