Bellowhead - Rigs Of The Time lyrics

Here's to the baker I must bring him in
Charges tuppence a loaf and he'll
Think it no sin when he do bring it in it's
No bigger than your fist
And the top of the loaf is
Popped off with the yeast

And honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times
Times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

Here's to the butcher I must bring him in
He charges fourpence a pound and
He'll think it no sin
Slaps his hand on the scale-weight
To make it go down
He swears it's good weight when
It wants half a pound
And honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times
Times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

Here's to the tailor who
Skimps on our clothes
And the shoemaker who pinches our toes
So our bellies go empty our backsides go bare
It's no wonder we've reason to
Curse and to swear

That honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times
Times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

Now the very best thing that
The people could find
Is to huff them all up in a high gale of wind
And the wind it will blow and
The cloud it will burst
And the biggest old rascal
Come tumbling down first

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times
Times me boys
These are the rigs of the times