Rigs Of The Time - Bellowhead

Here’s to the baker I must bring him in

Charges tuppence a loaf and he’ll think it no sin

When he do bring it in it’s no bigger than your fist

And the top of the loaf is popped off with the yeast

And honesty’s all out of fashion

These are the rigs of the times, times me boys

These are the rigs of the times

Here’s to the butcher I must bring him in

He charges fourpence a pound and he’ll think it no sin

Slaps his hand on the scale-weight to make it go down

He swears it’s good weight when it wants half a pound

And honesty’s all out of fashion

These are the rigs of the times, times me boys

These are the rigs of the times

Here’s to the tailor who skimps on our clothes

And the shoemaker who pinches our toes

So our bellies go empty our backsides go bare

It’s no wonder we’ve reason to curse and to swear

That honesty’s all out of fashion

These are the rigs of the times, times me boys

These are the rigs of the times

Now the very best thing that the people could find

Is to huff them all up in a high gale of wind

And the wind it will blow and the cloud it will burst

And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first

Honesty’s all out of fashion

These are the rigs of the times, times me boys

These are the rigs of the times