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