Jake Thackray Pass Milord The Rooster Juice
Gone are the old, bold, golden days
When the big hob-nobs were always on the rampage.
Nobs today don't do the things they used.
Pass milord the rooster juice.
Our noble upper crust has got the crumbles;
Their escutcheons are not gleaming quite so bright;
Their rampant crests are withering and wilting;
And it serves the cocky thoroughbreeders right!
Oh no, oh no, no. Sir Jasper!
Gone are the days when a hot and spunky duke
Could set the rafters ringing and the duchess whooping.
The lordly lustre is faded and forlorn.
Pass milord the powdered rhino horn.
No more wild unbridling nights up at the chateau,
No more jump and tumblings in the good old style.
If tonight her ladyship should raise an eyebrow
His lordship would only raise a smile.
Oh no, oh no, no. Sir Jasper!
Gone are the days when a belting earl
Could gobble up a girl with a twirl of his moustachios.
The lordly whiskers have got the dreaded droop.
Pass milord the stallion soup.
Pretty damsels will go sadly under-ravished;
Gamekeepers will grow rusty in their prime;
There'll be no more dramas on the bridge at midnight.
How will the working classes pass the time?
Oh no, oh no, no, Sir Jasper!
Gone are the olden, golden days of yore
When you could jam your jodhpur in a village maiden's
doorway.
The lordly riding boots don't glint the way they used.
Pass milord, p-p-p-pass milord,
P-p-p-pass p-pass milord the rooster juice.
