My grandmother ...

... taught me the following song, at her knee one suspects.
The workers' flag is deepest red,
It shrouded oft our martyred dead;
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold
Their life-blood dyed its every fold.
Then raise the scarlet standard high;
Beneath its folds we'll live and die,
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here.
My father taught me this version.
The workers' flag is deepest red,
It flies above our martyred dead;
The working class can kiss my arse
I've got the foreman's job at last.
This is the man who also used to sing ... to the tune of The Lonely Goatherd - Morgan's in love with a hairy stoker ... you get the picture.