Part of this story is true, the other part just my sick imagination. Cromwell is actually still widely revered in England, with lots of statues of him up for the tourists, but in Ireland his name is still used as a curse word. I guess that's what you get for ordering the slaughter of whole towns full of innocent people...
In September of 1658
The Lord Protector passed away
He was given a funeral fit for a king
At the glorious Westminster Abbey
But he was only buried for a time you see
For his son Richard's rule was not to be
The Royalist's took over and then
They dug up Crommy's body again...
They hung his body way up high
And cursed his name up to the sky
They took him down and then it's said
They cut off his bloody fucking head
They threw his body in a pit
And shoved his head down on a spit
And on top of the abbey it did sit
To stare at the people passing by
One day a storm blew down upon the church
And knocked the bastard off his perch
And to the ground he swiftly fell
While Cromwell's soul raged down in Hell
A sentinel took it to a pub
And showed his friends the bastard's mug
They wondered long over their drinks
What to do with the ghastly thing
Then someone said "let's pay our respects"
And poured his beer into it's neck
And drank the ale out from his eyes
As everyone sat and looked surprised
Then someone said, "it's my turn next!"
"Let's all have a drink from Cromwell's head!"
Then they all got drunk, so it's said
And somehow they went and lost the head
It turned up at a sideshow display
But no one cared much anyways
And now it's gone, but I bet
It'll turn up someday somewhere yet
I made a vow that before I'm dead
That I'll have a drink from Cromwell's head
Pay the bastard my respects
And pour my beer into his neck
It was so much fun they said
Drinking beer from Cromwell's head!