I say. Alright.

I've donned my fighting trousers and I'm practising my sneer,

Perfected up my swordsmanship, refilled my bandolier;

To say my art form's obsolete is an error I forswear,

For the good old English villain is a cad without compare.

Now celluloid's a Russian's task, or a German antagonist's,

Our hero grapples communists and suicidal terrorists

But now I feel this whitewashing of hist'ry will not stand,

For colonials ought to wrestle with a bounder from the motherland.

Why, ever since that tea was dropped in watery Boston harbour,

I've meant to slit more Yankee throats than a narcoleptic barber

A malicious son of every one of these green and pleasant lands,

I'll kill one hostage every hour 'til you submit to my demands.

This sceptred isle for far too long's been content with second place,

But I'm building up a superweapon in the depths of outer space

My fighting trousers are prepared (and they're trousers, please, not pants);

And I'll knock the do-gooders for six like Surrey vs Hants.

When my death ray is complete, you see, I'll turn the world to gelatin,

And remain the very model of a modern English gentleman.