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
