The Rigs of the Time
anonimo
| La versione di Martin Carthy, dal disco “Out of the Cut”, 1982 | |
RIGS OF THE TIME It's of an old butcher, I must bring him in. Charges four pence a pound, and thinks it no sin. Puts his thumb on the scale which makes it go down, And swears it's good weight yet it lacks half a pound. All sing... Chorus (after each verse): Honesty 's all out of fashion These are the rigs of the time Time, me boys, These are the rigs of the time Now it's next to the baker, I must bring him in. Charges tuppence a loaf and he thinks it no sin. When he do bring it in, is not bigger than your fist, And the top of the loaf is all covered in yeast All sing... Now it's next to the landlord, well I must bring him in. Charges tuppence a pint and he thinks it no sin. When he do bring it in, now the measure it is short And the top of the pot it is all covered in froth. All sing... Now the best of all plans that comes to me mind Is to set them all off in a high gale of wind And when they go up, oh, the cloud it will burst And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first Singing... | RIGS OF THE TIME No wonder that butter's nigh on a quid a pound, See the rich corporate farmers how they ride up and down. You ask them the reason, they'll say: “Bonny lass, It's the Commission in Brussels have taxed the cows' grass.” Chorus (after each verse): Honesty's all out of fashion, These are the rigs of the time. Time, me boys, These are the rigs of the time. Now Home Secretaries, I must bring 'em in With their society obedient at every turn At picking the Peach, pulls Towers to the ground, Who needs the NF when there's SPG around. Now absentee landlords, I must bring 'em in With their sky-high rents and they think it no sin. Their ceilings fall in, the walls run with slime, But they're for blacks or for Irish so no-one really minds. |
