Class Now that is a glass Of British wine
Our tiny society Thrives on variety I'm generally fine Till I open my mouth Then I'm working class south
That's where I fit I arrived with it Stamped on my head Born and bred
The invisible label That reads I'm unable To rise to the top So here I will stop
Our ancient glass ceiling Is very revealing Not a matter of cash Or a cultural clash
The Lords and their Peers Have been secretly breeding And quietly seeding Each other For hundreds of years
You can't ever win They won't let you in!
(Pull up the drawbridge Marjorie. I think I saw a peasant!)