From a comment in the Grauniad (to the tune of good king Wenceslas)
Jacob Rees-Mogg erst looked out
From the fields of Eton
Children starving round about
Deep in debt and beaten.
Brightly shone his gold that night
He was born to rule
When a poor child came in sight
Begging winter gruel.
Hither, Nanny, stand by me
Such oiks are repelling
Yonder peasant, how dare he?
One shall burn his dwelling.
Sire, he lives in dismal Slough
In receipt of welfare
Should sir care to feed him now
Christ would think sir’s tone fair.
Cease at once this compassion
Hark ye not the moaners
He is but a pleb, low-born
Floreat Etona.
Bring my birch and bring my wine
Bring my sharp steel hither
Thou and I shall see him whine
Nanny do not dither.
Jacob paused to stash more cash
In the Cayman Islands
He’d been taught to pay no tax
In his sunlit uplands.
In fresh-laundered cummerbund
Jacob sipped his sherry
Transferred assets to his fund
Gorged on cake and cherries.
Striding through the snow snaked Mogg
to bag this evening’s prole
When from through the gloaming fog
Came threats upon his goal.
Cease your foul play, Murd’rous Mogg
Ground your whip and broadsword
Thou shalt not poor children flog
Mark me, I am Rashford.
