The Singing Butler

I've worked for the family for 30 years Crowns and coronets, the Charleston trot They pay my wages and they oil the gears Of labour, but I tell you they're a real rum lot There's Miss Sybil, on her painted toes Waltzing in the sand, full of limes and gin With Sir Henry Parker where the sea breeze blows Pretending they are classy as the tide rolls in In-bred, high-bred, the upper class Pay the piper, so they call the tune Me and the under maid must earn our brass Holding an umbrella for a rich buffoon