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