O my Luve ‘s like a red, red flag
That ‘s brandished by a throng:
O my Luve ‘s like the melodie
of a Chuckle Brothers’ song!
As fair art thou, my bomber lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
When we drop the workers’ bomb.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
But steer clear of those Spartacists,
Their dialectic’s truly vile.
Proleapols to cmbbe Robbie “Third Degree” Burns
Your significance to me,
Is like that of Mao to the peasantry.
And so I share my Five Year Plan,
Year one is to become your man.
And all I hope from year two,
Is that I am still with you.
And that you are still with me,
The aspiration for year three.
Hope you’ve not shown me the door,
By the time we reach year four.
Happy I’ll be in year five,
If our love is still alive.
Some say that love is like a weight,
Like being crushed by the state.
They also tell me that it feels,
Like being ground under capitalists’ heels.
But when I gaze into your eyes,
How I feel my proletariat rise.
I know that if you’ll be with me,
Together we’ll smash the bourgeoisie.