Here's to the baker, I must bring him in
Charges tuppence a loaf, and he'll think it's no sin
When he do bring it in, it's no bigger than your fist
And the top of the loaf has popped off with the yeast

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times, times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

Here's to the butcher, I must bring him in
He charges fourpence a pound, and he'll think it's no sin
Slaps his hand on the scale weight and makes it go down
He'll swear it's good weight but it wants half a pound

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times, times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

Here's to the tailor who skimps on our clothes
And the shoemaker who pinches our toes
So our bellies go empty, our backsides go bare
It's no wonder we've reason to curse and to swear

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times, times me boys
These are the rigs of the times

[instrumental]

Now the very best thing that the people could find
Is to hold them aloft in a high gale of wind
And the wind it will blow, and the cloud it will burst
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the times, times me boys
These are the rigs of the times