Lyrics:

You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you toLobster red, nothing saidWhen yellow has turned green to brown, divide
by fourMultiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derisionLobster head and lobster feetOn arriving with a third
languageTucked into your brief case, next to your toothbrushAlong with a copy of the Nouvelle ObservateureWhile your sons an
d daughters who registered naughtUnder intensive electronic scanningYou regard your body with regard to eventsWith which not
hing plannedNever lacked a sense of theatreOn returning with the tab you've gainedA head of world service, the best of your
cultureAn evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream