18/10/2025
Old McDonald had a farm, he don’t anymore,
E-I-E-I-O.
And on that farm he had red tape—enough to choke a boar,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a form-form here, and a tax-tax there,
Here a ban, there a plan, everywhere a bureaucrat’s hand—
Old McDonald had a farm, he don’t anymore.
Old McDonald had some cows, he don’t anymore,
E-I-E-I-O.
Labour said they fart too much, and fined him by the score,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a green fee here, and a climate czar there,
Here a grant, there a scam, everywhere a carbon plan—
Old McDonald had some cows, he don’t anymore.
Old McDonald grew some grain, but can’t afford to sow,
E-I-E-I-O.
They taxed the diesel for his plough, then told him it must go,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a rule here, and a speech there,
Here a cut, there a rut, everywhere a minister’s gut—
Old McDonald grew some grain, but not anymore.
Old McDonald had a dream, till Labour took it whole,
E-I-E-I-O.
Now his fields are “rewilded,” and his barn’s a welfare goal,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a think tank here, and a ban there,
Here a bribe, there a tribe, everywhere a new vibe—
Old McDonald had a farm, they regulated it to death.
