Back in 1605,

There were men

Who would strive

With a pen

Or a sword in a war over God.

 

Now, if we were like them,

Such a fuss

Would condemn

All of us

To a Home for the Hopelessly Odd.

 

Catholics and Protestants all get along today;

Hindus

Enthuse

About Muslims and Jews;

Taoists and Buddhists are willing to meet halfway;

Life is One Grand and Glorious Shmooze.

 

But there's one place where it's not:

Where folks still remember—The Plot.

 

Let's "remember the Fifth of November";

I'm fed up with the Fourth of July—

Stack one more chair

On the pile in the square

And ignite the combustible Guy.

 

Fawkes, though dotty from Catholic dogma,

Always made sure that his powder was dry.

Who, then, can blame

Us, if we do the same

And ignite the combustible Guy?

 

(As a traitor to King,

You are sentenced to swing

On a string, Brother Fawkes;

Better run for it, son—

Though dissent may be fun,

Only gunpowder talks!)

 

If the future of Britain is dodgy,

Maybe its Church is a leedle too High.

Scuttle that scheme

For a Romish regime!

Find a tight

Puseyite,

Set the blight-

Er alight,

And ignite the combustible Guy!