God save me from the porcers, God save me from their sons,Their noisy, tweedy sisters, who follow with the guns,The old and scheming mother, their futures that she planned,The ghastly younger brother, who married into land.Their shots along the valley draw blood out of the sky,The wounded pheasants rally as hob-nailed boots go by,Where once the rabbits scampered, the waiting copse is still,As Porker, fat and pampered, comes puffing up the hill.A left and right, well done, sir, they are falling in the road,And here's your other gun, sir, don't talk, you're here to load.He grabs his gun, not seeing a thing, but birds in air,And blows them out of being with self-indulgent stare.Triumphant after shooting, he still commands the scene,His Land Rover comes hooting, beaters and dogs between,Then dinner with a neighbour, it doesn't matter which,Conservative or Labour, so long as he is rich.A faux bonhomme, and dull as well, all pedigree and purse,We must admit, that though he's hell, his womenfolk are worse,Bright in their county ginsets, they tug their ropes of pearls,And smooth their tailored twinsets, and drop the names of earls.Loud talk of meets and marriages, and tax evasions heard,In many first-class carriages, while servants travel third,My dear, I have to spoil them too, or who would do the chores?Well, here we are at Waterloo, I'll drop you at the stores.God save me from the porkers, the pathos of their lives,The strange example that they set, to new rich farmers' wives,Glad to accept their bounty, and worship from afar,And think of them as county, county is what they are.My dear, I have to spoil them too, or who would do the chores?Well, here we are at Waterloo, I'll drop you at the stores.God save me from the porkers, the pathos of their lives,The strange example that they set, to new rich farmers' wives,The strange example that they set, to new rich farmers' wives.