They sleep in mansions instead of tents
They never scale the perimeter fence
There’s high-class bogs for the ladies and gents
Only the rich elite may come
Get orf their land, you common scum
Tarquin’s squiffy on a shot of rum
So tell us a true-blue campfire story
It’s better than bloody Jackanory
The tales that are told of GlastonTory
Their butlers on the door will scan ya
If you deal in common drugs they’ll ban ya
And you’ll miss their rousing Rule Britannia
They’ve booked a field not far from Harlow
They couldn’t be arsed with Monte Carlo
Their headline act is Gary Barlow
No burger vans, there’s finest gastro
T-shirts of Thatcher instead of Castro
It’s a jolly good wheeze at Conservative Glasto
In the RightField tent they’ve a splendid speaker
On how the strong must crush the weaker
Great for the sadistic pleasure seeker
They get quite naughty after dark
And run through wheatfields for a lark
And one chap puked where the Rollers park
The dealers there are selling arms
And silver spoons and lucky charms
At the fest at You’re-Not-Worthy Farm
There won’t be rappers or rock ‘n’ roll
And you know their Party has no soul
This having fun may take its toll
They’ve entertainment fine and pleasant
Hunt a fox or shoot a pheasant
Kick the poor or beat a peasant
They’re jolly good at making merry
Smoking pipes and sipping sherry
It’s a hoot at Tory Glastonbury
