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Woad

What’s the use of wearing braces,
Vests and pants and boots with laces,
Spats and hats you buy in places,
Down in Brompton Road?
What’s the use of shirts of cotton,
Studs that always get forgotten,
These affairs are simply rotten —
Better far is woad!
Woad’s the stuff to show, men;
Woad to scare your foemen;
Boil it to a brilliant hue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen.
Ancient Briton never hit on
Anything as good as woad to fit on
Neck or knees or what you sit on —
Tailors, you be blowed!

Romans came across the Channel,
All wrapped up in tin and flannel;
Half a pint of woad per man’ll
Dress us more than these!
Saxons you may waste your stitches
Building beds for bugs in breeches,
We have woad to clothe us, which is
Not a nest for fleas.
Romans, keep your armours,
Saxons, your pyjamas,
Hairy coats were meant for goats,
Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.
Tramp up Snowdon with our woad on,
Never mind if we get rained or blowed on,
Never want a button sewed on,
Go it, Ancient B’s!