Open Your Eyes, the World is Shit-Dust Congress by BestNewBandscom
When you first hear this you instantly mould into the character of Henry VIII, putting down your comically oversized drumstick and wiping the thick gravy off your fat chops. You rise from your position at the centre of the banquet table with some difficulty. You reshuffle your large, smock like cloak, covered in ridiculously expensive jewels and gratuitous flourishes of gold. You begin the long, tiresome walk around the banquet table to the dance floor in front, minions scuttling away in fear as you do so, the goblets of wine rippling like that scene in Jurassic Park from the weight of your footsteps.
After an awkward eternity where all your guests try horribly not to stare at this hideous sight, like a three carriage pile up, you make the dance floor and approach that lady who you've been making eyes at the whole meal. You've already decided you'll marry her over at Hampton Court, you'll play some real tennis in the morning, grab a hot bath and a scrub down and wed in the afternoon. You'll get that hog roast man in and the jester with the burnt face who you find so pitiful and funny. Once the festivities are over you'll whisk her to the marital suite, where she will conceive you a perfect, arian male heir.
There's a problem however, you've seen this complexion before in the whore houses of western France, she's not a virgin! In your anger you order her impromptu and summary execution. The bloke with the black hood, who you insisted come to these dances precisely for this reason, looks relieved at no longer having to look civilised.
Later on in your chambers, after many more goblets of blood-red vino, you start to dwell on what you've just done, transforming into a blubbering, drunk, melancholic Shane MacGowan, who with the help of the rest of The Pogues, enable you to illustrate your sorrow, not at the loss of that wench's life but at the cruel cycle of violence your life has entered in the search to continue your legacy.