First in line is our dear Lord God, In the finest brogues he is shod, Beware being smited with his rod, If off in church you dare nod. Below dear Lord lies our Queen, Never has a mind been so clean, She would find nothing obscene, About the juxtaposition of sex and teen. Below the Queen lie the Dukes and Earls, Whom like nothing better than chasing girls, And gifting across their golden curls, A necklace made of unnatural pearls, Below the peers there lies the Squire, Whom to the peerage does aspire, But as he owns not half the shire, He must content himself with the choir. Below the gentry lie the vicars, Who disgrace themselves on other's liquors, Whilst trying to enter the knickers, Of holidaying townie hop-pickers. Below the clergy professionals rule, Chasing money which makes them a fool, Realising not they're their betters tool, All to send their children to public school. I shall not mention all the rest, Save to say they are not blessed, With brogues, land and family crest, Save a stain upon their vest.