We're English, and therefore we're sorry,
For the things that we did years ago;
We're the wickedest folk on the planet,
As the following verses will show.
We're sorry we fought at Culloden,
To the Scottish we've always been mean;
We killed your King Jamie at Flodden,
And we cut off the head of your Queen.
We're sorry, good people of Wales,
For all of those ‘sheep-shagger' gags;
And we're sorry if ever we called you
A nation of whinging wind-bags.
We're sorry if you were a convict
Who we sent off to sunnier climes;
We condemned you to life as an Aussie,
When you'd rather have swung for your crimes.
We're sorry we carved out an Empire,
And we're sorry for giving it back
To people like Robert Mugabe
Who's no better than Stalin ... but black.
We're sorry we dealt in the slave trade,
And we're sorry for stamping it out.
We're sorry we fought with the Zulus;
- there's so much we're sorry about.
We're sorry, dear French, for the longbow;
And ‘twas perfectly fair to cry ‘foul'
That we wouldn't surrender to Hitler
When you eagerly threw in the towel.
We're sorry for Queen Boadicea
Who just didn't know when to stop;
We're sorry we fought Mussolini,
And we're sorry we called him a wop.
We're sorry for beating the Germans
In two World Wars and a World Cup;
Most of all, we're incredibly sorry
That we cannot stop bringing it up!
Not our fault? Even so, we're still sorry;
We're sorry John Lennon was shot;
And we're sorry for saying we're sorry
When it's perfectly plain that ... we're not.
