Pass Us The Salt

Pass us the salt.
It ain't my fault
You people lack flavour.
It condi-mental
That you Michelin starred mob,
In your Westminster kitchen,
Are serving up this slop
And we have to pay for it.

Get the manager!
The service round here is terrible!
There’s a fly in my soup!
But no flies on me mate,
I see what you’re up to.
Shame you kitchen’s
Not one of those trendy ones,
Where poor punters
Can see you preparing,
The crap you are preparing.
Pass us the salt.

You’ve got rats in your bins,
But the inspector gets paid off.
You'd get slated in the press,
But the editor’s paid off.
You'd get nailed in the Sundays,
But the food critic’s a friend of yours.
You're accounts are criminal
But you’re pan-frying the books, mate.

The upset waiting staff get paid nowt.
The Slovakian KP got kicked out, so
Now you ‘ave to wash up
But you don't know how!
The French cheese board got pricier
Who's fault is that?
Pass us the salt.

Getting bored
Of your smorgasbord, mate
No Reisling with you lot
You kept back champagne
For yourselves
But like you,
It's flat, It's no good
It's getting wurst.
No more Going Dutch
No one’s full to burst
You’re Mr. creosoting
Over the cracks, mate.
People are waiting,
People are starving,
Pass us the salt.

You concreted over
All our gardens,
So you’re buying spuds from China
Don't taste the same, mate.
You try to catch
The Scottish salmon,
But you’re a dancing bear, mate
Chained up to your little rock.
The pictures on your restaurant wall
Are all pretty little English
Garden scenes.
From Victorian times, mate.
As irrelevant as your wine list.
English wine’s no good.
You tax the tips,
Kick out the cleaners,
But
Pay
The head chef
Double.
Pass us the salt.

The hospitals are overrun
With food poisoned folk
Because the dish you're serving up
Neither cold or hot
Is best not served at all.
It has no nutrients,
It has no flavour,
And people
Are getting
Very
Fucking
Sick.