Classic Poem

Sacred England, stagnant pool,
Haunt of every knave and fool:
We thy humble servants pray
That thou be thus for alway.

Gold alone maintains thy might,
Not vain justice, foolish right:
Gold alone feeds fading lust
Ere it falls to rot and dust.

Gold with hands both white and black,
Wrung from many a wretched back;
We now lay before thy feet,
Moral England, fat and sweet.