| Lyrics: | O'er grassy dale, and lowland scene
Come see, come hear, the English Scheme.
The
lower-class, want brass, bad chests, scrounge fags.
The clever ones tend to emigrate
Like
your psychotic big brother, who left home
For jobs in Holland, Munich, Rome
He's thick but
he struck it rich, switch
The commune crap, camp bop, middle-class, flip-flop
Guess that's
why they end up in bands
He's the green piece in us all
He's the creep-creep in us
all
Condescends to black men
Very nice to them
They talk of Chile while driving through
Haslingdon
You got sixty hour weeks, and stone stone toilet back-gardens
Peter Cook's jokes,
bad dope, check shirts, lousy groups
Point their fingers at America
Down pokey quaint
streets in Cambridge
Cycles our distant spastic heritage
Its a gay red, roundhead, army
career, grim head
If we was smart we'd emigrate |
