O’er grassy dale, and lowland sceneCome see, come hear, the english scheme.The lower-class, want brass, bad chests, scrounge fags.The clever ones tend to emigrateLike your psychotic big brother, who left homeFor jobs in holland, munich, romeHe’s thick but he struck it rich, switchThe commune crap, camp bop, middle-class, flip-flopGuess that’s why they end up in bandsHe’s the green piece in us allHe’s the creep-creep in us allCondescends to black menVery nice to themThey talk of chile while driving through haslingdonYou got sixty hour weeks, and stone stone toilet back-gardensPeter cook’s jokes, bad dope, check shirts, lousy groupsPoint their fingers at americaDown pokey quaint streets in cambridgeCycles our distant spastic heritageIts a gay red, roundhead, army career, grim headIf we was smart we’d emigrate
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