Lyrics:

The old rocker wore his hair too long, wore his trouser cuffs too tight
Unfashionable to the end; drank his ale too light
Death's head belt buckle, yesterday's dreams, the transport caf' prophet of doom
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams, in his post-war-babe gloom

Cut along the dotted line, slip in and seal the flap
Postal competition crazy, though you wear the dunce's cap
Win a fortnight in Ibiza, line up for the big hand out
You'll never know unless you try what winning's all about
Be a quiz kid
Be a whiz kid

Six days later there's a rush telegram
Drop everything and telephone this number if you can
It's a free trip down to London for a weekend of high life
They'll wine you, dine you, undermine you; better not bring the wife
Be a quiz kid
Be a whiz kid

It's a try out for a quiz show that millions watch each week
Following the fate and fortunes of contestants as they speak
Answerable to everyone, responsible to all, publicity dissected
Brain cells splattered on the walls of encyclopaedic knowledge
May be barbaric but it's fun
As the clock ticks away a lifetime, hold your head up to the gun
Of a million cathode ray tubes aimed at your tiny skull
May you find sweet inspiration, may your memory not be dull

May you rise to dizzy success, may your wit be quick and strong
May you constantly amaze us, may your answers not be wrong
May your head be on your shoulders, may your tongue be in your cheek
And most of all we pray that you may come back next week
Be a quiz kid
Be a whiz kid