And I said, "What can this mean,
As the first guest of the Queen,
And sit upon her right hand
Where the Prince is mostly seen?"
The maids of honour stared at me
To see a man of such good taste
For Mass Environment Controls,
Who condemn the working classes
That belong to Queen and Country,
But do not permit their souls
Began to melt and slip away;
One million candle- powered
It kept the night at bay.
While the power station workers
The workers in the fields
Were engaged in self- defence,
Which involved the use of barbed wire
As a self- containing fence,
But as a means of self- protection
It was needlessly immense.
I stopped to ask them for a light,
Which raised their hopes of harvesting
In his home above the lake,
Raised high on woooden stilts,
Has made the singular mistake
Engaged in mundane occupation,
Enjoys the chance of laughing
At the Queen's humiliation
At the hands of Ministers of State
Now the power station worker,
Though his aim is too disjointed,
Finds himself around the corner;
While his gun is never pointed,
He desires to be anointed