Money is coarse. Her subjects take the taint.
The humble glow. They smile their Sunday best.
And everywhere she goes the Queen smells paint.
She’s there for them that is and them that ain’t.
Toffs drop their aitches in the jabber-fest.
Money is coarse. Her subjects take the taint.
Some pilgrims sell their souls to view the saint,
her crown more halo than its jewels attest.
And everywhere she goes the Queen smells paint.
Jewels outshine cash – imperially quaint,
like stars, the wearer’s heavenly worth unguessed.
Money is coarse. Her subjects take the taint.
Having paid her princes’ ransom in restraint,
she pales, as shame starts rising in the west.
And everywhere she goes the Queen smells paint.
Her haughty steeds clop fictional and faint.
One groom is sacked before he’s even dressed.
Money is coarse. Her subjects take the taint.
And everywhere she goes the Queen smells paint.
