There’s a lot in this song I don’t understand, so I suppose the following transcription contains some errors. From here.


KING CANUTE
As recorded by Mr. Flotsam and Mr. Jetsam, and on “Vintage Comedy Collection, Vol. 1”

King Canute, we are told to believe,
Sitting on the sands with nothing up his sleeve,
“Now,” said he, “back there, sea,”
But the sea came rolling on,
And his courtiers said: “Doggone!”

King Canute's been and got his boots wet through.
Boo-hoo!
He didn’t oughter let such a lot of water get through.
That’s true.
But it’s the same with us today
In a different kind of way:
Trying to keep this back, trying to keep that back,
All the time, hey, hey!
Income tax, alimony writs and suits,
Disputes!
Sing, boys, sing; we’re just a lot of King Canutes.

King Canute in this year of grace,
Would have had a trace of worry on his face
With the traffic today in London, say,
Like a sea all round his feet
In the middle of Oxford Street.

King Canute's been and got his boots wet through,
Boo-hoo!
Oh, wouldn’t he relish a go at Hore-Belisha, too!
That’s true.
At thirty miles an hour going strong
Till PC Mary Jane comes along,
Then the little dear says, like the auctioneer says,
“Going, going, gone!”
Beacons thrive, and we’ve got to drive like mutes.
No hoots!
Sing, boys, sing; we’re just a lot of King Canutes.

King Canute like a lot of other blokes
Would have thoroughly enjoyed those Mae West jokes.
In the USA he’s have visited Mae,
And probably had a scrum(?) time,
Gone up and seen her some time.

King Canute's been and got his boots wet through.
Boo-hoo!
Oh, how his folly would tickle them in Hollywood, too.
That’s true.
He would have tried to stem the sea
Of divorces there, maybe.
Can’t you hear those cuties asking who Canute is?
King, you’re telling me!
Over there, no one seems to care two hoots.
Those beauts!
Sing, boys, sing; we’re just a lot of King Canutes.

King Canute's been and got his boots wet through,
Boo-hoo!
He at the mike, too, possibly with fright, too blue.
Won’t do!
He’d have thrown his pail and spade
At the foreigners who invade
These our fair shores while on their shores
We’re not allowed to trade.
Dance bands land all the rage in brand new suits,
With flutes.
Sing, boys, sing; we’re just a lot of King Canutes.

- - -
See Wikipedia: King Canute and the tide.