We’re going to war with France again. Hoorah for Brexiteers!
Hoorah for dragging fishes from the sea
We’ll wave the British flag again with three good British cheers
And have British fishy fingers for wor tea
And when the seabed’s bare and there are no more fish to eat
And no more fish and chips in Hartlepool
The townsfolk will rebel again and Jill will lose her seat
When they replace her with some other party’s fool.
The war will be concluded by a treaty with the French
The terms of which may well confuse or baffle
But at least there will be no more of that dreadful fishy stench
Once the townsfolk all discover there's falafel.
And if we’re very fortunate no seamen will be killed
And no monkeys will be hanged for being spies
And Boris and his buddies will be absolutely thrilled
That no one gave a toss about his lies.