From a man of his word and a gentleman bred,
with an Oxford voice and a Roman head,
and a Crown Derby chamberpot under the bed,
like a Fogey of old,
a quondam Fogey,

with an elegant ladyship, frosty and lank,
a runagate daughter who's broken the bank,
and a playboy son who's thick as a plank,
like a Fogey of old,
a family Fogey,

with pin-striped trousers, a Homburg hat,
a misquotation trotted out pat,
and a smirk on his phiz like the Cheshire cat,
like a Fogey of old,
a has-been Fogey,

with ritual manners and hangman views,
with well-rehearsed phrases to put in the news,
and a jailer´s view of the freedom to choose ---
from that old Fogeyman,
that once on a Fogey,

to a rascal who's risen with barely a trace,
with an off-white twang and a butterscotch face,
and an inbuilt instinct for holding his place,
like the Faker we know,
new smiling Faker,

a man of the people on company boards,
with a eye for whatever the market affords
and a bottom for warming his seat in the Lords,
that's Faker made new,
renewable Faker,

with a talent for lies and arithmetic,
a ready-made hand for the three-card trick,
and a caring heart that bleeds like a brick,
in the new Faker way
of the takeaway Faker,

with a wife or a mistress, as he´s inclined,
and a Savile row suit with a big vent behind
for airing his views when he's speaking his mind,
like the thinker we know,
fresh-re-thinking Faker,

with an eye like a fish and a neb like a tyke
and a mouth like a hole in a derelict dyke
spouting statistics, hot air and the like -
but tell me, who's who,
Old Fogey, New Faker?