The Movers of Paint
The Queen of England exists in a sphere
Of opulence, hygiene, crystals and clear
The Queen of England, between me and you
Is oblivious of the fact, that all is not true
The Queen of England is surrounded by maids
Valets and footmen, horse guard parades
The Queen of England has nothing and much
Closeted, nurse maided and kept out of touch
Once in a while , when she steps out of her bubble
An army of subjects remove, Englands rubble
They brush up and clean all, make everything quaint
Repairmen, road sweepers and the movers of paint
They fill in the pot holes and paint roads with new grey
So the Queen of England can continue her way
The Queen of England thinks it’s always like this
Hygienic and colourful, ecstacy and bliss
When the movers of paint, paint the grass with new green
Moving litter and dog plop so all is so clean
They paint the grass greener than grass could be green
So the Queen of England thinks everything is clean
They paint up the sky with a light shade of blue
Then repaint the clouds whiter, I tell you, it’s true
They paint all the flowers to make everything be quaint
This army of menders and the movers of paint
They repair all the buildings and freshen the park
Thus the Queen of England, she stays in the dark
When The Queen of England has ended her tour
Back safe in her bubble of opulence and more
An army of subjects, they down tools and they stop
Britain returns back to pot holes and dog plop
Litter, drug packets adorn all that was made quaint
By repairmen, road sweepers and the movers of paint.
One day the bubble, like all bubbles, will blow
The Queen, her Majesty, will have nowhere to go
Except out on the streets, where nothing is quaint
No repairmen, no road sweepers and no movers of paint
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