Grab your maypole and let’s protest,
Crown a spring queen and drench her
In chains, the masters treasure chest
Is full of gold and spider whispers.
Grab your maypole and lets dig
Butcher a spring fowl and drench it
In butter, the people deserve to jig
While blind men sing holy writ.
Grab your maypole and let’s stay,
Plant a picket fence and drink liqueur
Each morning. We need to decay
As proper mademoiselle and monsieur.
Grab your maypole and let’s protest,
Take the nepotist’s boat to the seaway
And swim in tropical waters, all soaked Sunday’s best
And sunken stolen pay.
Round and round,
We must be faster,
Hands in the ground
Digging graves for the master.