What's the use of wearing braces,
Vests and pants and boots with laces,
Spats and hats you buy in places
Down on Bromley Road?
What's the use of shirts of cotton,
Studs that always get forgotten?
These affairs are simply rotten:
Better far is Woad.
Woad's the stuff to show men;
Woad to scare your foemen;
Boil it to a brilliant blue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen,
Ancient Briton never hit on
Anything as good as Woad to fit on
Neck, or knees, or where you sit on:
Tailors, you be blowed.

Romans came across the Channel
All dressed up in tin and flannel;
Half a pint of Woad per man'll
Dress us wore than these.
Saxon, you can keep your stitches,
Building beds for bugs in britches;
We have Woad to clothe us, which is
Not a nest for fleas.
Romans, keep your armours;
Saxons, your pajamas;
Hairy coats were made for goats,
Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.
March on Snowderi with your Wood on,
Never wind if you get rained or snow'd on,
Never need a button sew'd on:
Go it, Ancient Bs.