Lyrics:

You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you to Lobster red, nothing said When yellow has turned green to brown, divide by four Multiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derision Lobster head and lobster feet On arriving with a third language Tucked into your brief case, next to your toothbrush Along with a copy of the Nouvelle Observateure While your sons and daughters who registered naught Under intensive electronic scanning You regard your body with regard to events With which nothing planned Never lacked a sense of theatre On returning with the tab you've gained A head of world service, the best of your culture An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream