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
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