Five oak chairs. There once were six But some fat fool leaned back too hard While passing the port. They'll fetch less now the set is gone. It's a crime because Her father's forefather picked them up In sixteen-something in an Irish bog He was taming for Cromwell. See, The family has always believed in democracy. So, in memory Of her night in a van with a plasterer Who reeked of lager but you had to love His orphanage face and his hopeless laughter When she told him, see, I'm no ordinary daughter, She's selling her father's chairs To raise cash for the Socialist Worker.