Lyrics:

I feel like a beggar accepting alms

Then being pelted with figs

I study my steadily declining chart placings

They greet me with freezing cold inhospitality

Hey, where did that bloke go who said I was vital?

I possess the mild air of a retail tobacconist

That's because I'm a retail tobacconist

But the mayflies on a Berkshire trout river

Would probably tell you a different story

About ham-fisted diadems and momentary daydreams

Of mythical dividends and illusory boardroom suits

In the room festooned with fat beef certificates

From county shows

Duff leg Bryn had drank too much again

Most of Wem was steering clear of him

I've got no time for this 12th consecutive Rose Bowl

'Cause at Sunday next at ten to four

I've got an invitation for

A trip around Katharine Hamnett's warehouse

Followed by dinner with David Emmanuel

Whom I can't wait to tell about my dream

In which the almost illegal Elton Welsby

Is dressed as a French maid on a moonless byway

Licking his lips as he creeps ever closer

Fast falls the eventide

Fast falls the eventide

The public appearance of bitter ex-soap stars

Who thought they could go on and do other things beside

The Centre Court amusement at the ballboy's mishap

That bobbing up and down thing that they do at the Proms

Opinionated weather forecasters telling me it's going to be a miserable day

Miserable to who? I quite like a bit of drizzle so stick to the facts

Channel 4 presents 'Blowjob'

Introduced by Adrian and Sophie Horn

Who is of course one bloke with a pierced dick

Who's just had the nod from Planet 24

Hear him say 'surreal, bizarre, sad git'

Yes indeedy, completely and utterly footy anorak and respect

Before whipping the audience up into doing the Time Warp

Watch him take us live to 'The Queen's Arse and Firkin'

Where Joseph Bloggs and his amazing Technicolour shellsuit

Are about to abort their Steely Dan routine

And instead embark upon 15 minutes of mantra-filled Oompah

15 minutes of mantra-filled Oompah

15 minutes of mantra-filled Oompah

Adrian / Sophie wants us, the viewers, to ring in

And say how we think the punters will react

(These are a few of my favourite things)

I'm incredibly bored with the word 'millennium'

And with the Jehovah's Witnesses

Millions now earmarked will later be wasted

Her Majesty, marvellous, mother the musical

The fireworks lighting up the Houses of Parliament

Death in Trafalgar Square, death in the armchair

Of clichéd old spinsters who never been loved

Every day is Australia day

'Sons and Daughters' and 'Home and Away'

But then the news comes on and the sound goes down

'Cause she can't be bothered with all them politicians

They're all just a bunch of flamin' drongos

She died with her telly on, 87 and confused

With not enough hospital beds 'cause all the money's been used

On the end of the century party preparations

And they reckon that the last thing she saw in her life was

Sting, singing on the roof of the Barbican

Sting, singing on the roof of the Barbican

T for Toxteth

T for Tennessee

T for Toxteth, T for Tennessee

T for Thatcher, that girl that made a wreck out of me

Old lady labelled me an idle

Old lady labelled me an idle

Old lady labelled me an idle layabout

Layabout

Layabout