by Martin Rowson
When you breakfast with the cunts who put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel
You have to wonder if a single one of them would then go tell
The children who have served them with their honeyed quinoa what they’re worth
And how meagre are the scraps the meek will get inheriting the Earth.
For the cunts who put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel are sleek and tanned,
And Darker than the panels in their rooms, which each night cost a grand,
Including of course breakfast, which comes with a small but fresh infusion
Of berries & a local root the colour of a new contusion
And the Cunts that put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel come from afar
For the hip Modern British cuisine & a greasy pummelling in the spa
And a face towel drenched in cumin & a taper scented with some myrrh
For the cunts in Countryhouse Hotels think this is how things always were.
But as the World these cunts have made & own gets closer to the edge,
This world destroyed by hedge funds which is how these cunts have made their wedge,
Will any of them get it in their tanned, toned, tousled blonde haired noodle
That the conquering cunts in Country Houses were and always will be feudal?
The parasites, the scum on top, thieves leeching off the dieting land,
Squandering our health to flaunt their wealth that crumbles into sand,
So in the name of just desserts rip off the scab & open Hell
And fill it with the cunts who put the cunt in Country House hotel!