Forgive me sir, cautioned the sentry, I'm afraid that you can’t gain entry, Why you ask, 'tis elementary! You are not born of the gentry. I don't care which school you attended, 'Tis clear your parents' depended, 'pon a bursary intended, For those with finances less than splendid. How can I tell you are of common roots? By Gad sah! have you seen your suits? You may as well wear cowboy boots, And a sweatshirt of the Loom's Fruits. If I had my way I'd throw you in prison, To chew upon your cellmates jism, For daring to think that you had risen, Above your betters' hearty derision. Now scuttle off home, you low born scum, And don't come back 'til you've become, Someone who can speak with a hint of plum, And have lost the odour of the slum.