tin can man, lend me a hand
if you weren't just a porter, you wouldn't be so bland.
run through the barley, hands to the sky
pin it to the sailor but don't tell me why.

the butcher of Ealing looks on you in dismay
but what do you care? he's just a protoplasmic eel.
spineless of spirit, haughty by hope, not a real man
and not fit for Pope.

see how they laugh at the man in the cloud
in his ivory tower, he sits tall and proud.
he gives you not choice, but a strict code of conduct
but please don't adhere to his naive social construct.

in the end, it's not decisions that make us
but the way we stay warm.
nevermind, it wasn't meant to be old barber
keep the coat and the old Greek tale.