When young I was a Socialist Despite my tender years; No blessed chance I ever missed To slam the profiteers. Yet though a fanatic I was, And cursed aristocrats, The Party chucked me out because I sported Spats.
Aye, though on soap boxes I stood, And spouted in the parks, They grizzled that my foot-wear would Be disavowed my Marx. It's buttons of a pearly sheen Bourgois they deemed and thus They told me; 'You must choose between Your spats and us.'
Alas! I loved my gaitered feet Of smoothly fitting fawn; They were so snappy and so neat, A gift from Uncle John Who had a fortune in the Bank That one day might be mine: 'Give up my spats!' said I, 'I thank You--but resign.'
Today when red or pink I see In stripy pants of state, I think of how they lost in me A demon of debate. I muse as leaders strut about In frock-coats and high hats . . . The bloody party chucked me out Because of Spats.