Classic Poem

He has many a car and chuffer
(Still the bugle, sheathe the sword),
So I left my mates to suffer
All because of Mr. Ford.
Ford, Ford, Ford of many millions,
Ford of many motors in the Park;
And our lord will laugh like thunder at the Good Cause going under
When we stab it, to oblige him, in the dark.

We'll give up the blasted place
(Drop the bugle, break the sword)
For one smile upon his face,
O, the shiny face of Ford!
Ford, Ford, Ford; the French are falling,
And the Serbians on the mountains lying stark,
All their eyes on us, disdaining, and it ain't no use explaining
That a millionaire has bought us for a lark.

O the motors he can make!
(Sell the bugle, pawn the sword)
We'll be humbled for his sake,
Break our faith and keep our Ford.
Ford, Ford, Ford—till death remove him
To a place on which it's needless to remark.
And the rich whose minds are muddy, who consider honour bloody,
Go down to their damnation in the dark.