Good King Borislav

Good King Borislav went out

on the feast of Stephen,

through the poor and layabouts

and the relatives grieving.

 

Brightly shone the police cars’s lights

on the empty schools,

when a poor man came in sight

begging like a fool.

 

Hither Raab and stand by me

if thou knowst it, telling,

yonder peasant who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

 

Sire, he lives a good league hence

by a Debenhams doorway

in a crowd of makeshift tents,

sent by folk from Norway.

 

Bring me flesh and bring me wine,

bring me pine logs hither,

we shall let him watch us dine.

Then we’ll send him thither.

 

Raab and Borislav, forth they went,

forth they went together,

through the rude wind's wild lament

and the bitter weather

 

Sire, the night is darker now

and the wind blows stronger.

Fails my heart, I know not how,

I can go no longer.

 

Mark my footsteps, Raab old Chap,

tread thou in them boldly.

Thou shall find this poverty crap

a load of socialist pony.

 

In his master's step he trod,

while the snow kept falling,

not a thought for the poor old sod

through the high street crawling.

 

Therefore, wealthy men, be sure

your fame or rank is fleeting

Ye, who now forget the poor,

justice will be meeting.