Our symbol now is palest pink,

This song should make you stop and think.

Jim Connell's one is growing old,

It's time to sing of purest gold.

So work like slaves and don't ask why, [Chorus]

The money god we'll deify.

Though theorists preach and lefties jeer,

We'll keep the pink rose growing here.

Look round, the Tory loves to gaze,

The stock exchange now sings its praise,

In money's vaults its hymns are sung;

Accountants swell the surging throng.

It waves above from some great height,

You know this perfumed flower's right

To slay the movement's sacred cow,

We're sure to change their colours now.

So let's forget the triumphs past,

And bury brotherhood at last

The coins are bright, the symbol plain,

For money's right and money's gain.

Now let us join the weak and base,

And merge with them in their good race

To become the rich man's clown,

One day we think we'll wear his crown.

So kneel we down and swear we all,

The Stock Exchange shall hear our call;

And though I know you think we're dim,

This song shall be our parting hymn.