Oh, the sun shines bright on my second home in Balcombe
These bally oil-rig chappies are all totally unwalcombe
We want to foil their plans to spoil our avenues and crescents
They ought to drill for oil among the stinking filthy peasants.
We shake our fists at journalists, we never speak uncouthly,
I'm so annoyed, I'm choking on my caviar and muesli.
The value of our second homes prevents us going broke,
We want to fill our Bentleys up with oil from Leeds or Stoke,
Cuadrilla wants to cover our green fields with metal boxes
But if they drill in Balcombe's meadows, where will we hunt foxes?
One day I wrote an angry note on headed station-ryyy,
I sent it to the Council, I'm good friends with my MP.
We remonstrate, we demonstrate, we proudly wave our banners
We're hand in hand upon the land, we mean to keep our manors,
They're lower class, they shall not pass, just listen to our moans,
Our English homes are castles, and our castles are our homes.
Cuadrilla ought to pack their bags and leave the village borders,
Look here, I'm landed gentry and they're disobeying orders.