"When I was a student at Oxford
We made lots of Anarchist bombs
And blew up the buildings of Parliament
With decorum and lots of aplomb
Sonya, Sonya the guests are at the door
Sonya, Sonya, the guests are at the door
Sonya, Sonya, the guest are at the door
The prussic acids in the wine.
Mother was a Muscovite masochist
Nailed by father each night to the door
We'd take her down for breakfast each morning
As on arm of leg we would gnaw
There is more but, fortunately, memory fails. I think that this might have been in "The Bosses Song Book, Songs to Stiffle the Flames of Discontent". I had a copy and loaned it to someone who never brought it back - they also didn't bring back my "Little Red Songbook" and a lovely Tudor press book on Hieronymus Bosch.
YOU know who you are!!!!