They say men write, and all for love; but this can never be:
They say that great men write and starve; but what is that to me?
For gold I sell my laughter, for gold I sell my tears,
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
I wrote my "In Memoriam" when I was young and green;
I wrote my "Promise of the May" when I was pumped out clean;
And I've been the Court's hired lackey for many cringing years;
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
The spider in my mouldy brain has woven its web for hours
On the dull flats of Lincoln fens and withered hot-house flowers;