Lord British was a monarch who was haughty and vain
And especially proud of his despotic reign.
But conceit of this sort isn't proper at all
And soon the old tyrant was doomed for a fall.
One day as he viewed his subjects from on high,
A voluptuous young wench caught his tired old eye.
Bending over to see, that oversexed goat
Let his gold crown slip and fall into the moat.
With a cry of sheer terror he jumped like a fool,
he rushed to his ditch (it reeked like a cesspool).
He leaped in kersplash! and sank like a stone.
(Everyone hoped for a new heir to the throne.)
But alas he came up and staggered from the sewer,
his robes smelled of offal, his breath like manure.
"Why did I do that? What possessed me today?
I'm as daft as old Iolo, and now I smell like Dupre."
"And if anyone sees me, oh what a disgrace,
I had better leave if I want to save face!"
But a crowd had assembled and stared, amazed,
the sight confused them, the stench left them dazed.
Then with a shriek a young boy began to laugh,
giggling and pointing at the king's fecal bath.
Becoming enraged, the monarch suddenly turned wild,
He looked like he wanted to strangle the child!
His hand turned to fist, he struck lightning fast,
but the old poop missed, and fell on his ass.
Not holding back, the crowd soon roared,
The laughter was deafening. It grew till it soared.
But the king found no humor and called for his men.
The arrival of the guard quickly silenced the din.
"For all of you who found humor in my sorrow and misfortune
Will soon find the rack! And pain! And contortion!
Then I will cackle as you stew and boil,
in a pot full of lard and bubbling oil.
And for those who survive this (they'd liefer be dead),
I'll pluck out their eyes, and chop off their head!
Finally in the wind their bodies will swing,
Then you fools will be sorry for laughing at this king!"
Then all were led away at the point of a sword,
While old Lord Brit took a dip in a ford.
Then he laughed at the cries that screamed through the night,
He chuckled at their anguish, he cackled at their plight.
In Britannia today no one openly tells this tale,
lest they find themselves thrown in tyrant's darkest jail.
But here in our new homeland this song can be sung,
the tale of how British acquired his faint smell of dung.