Lyrics:

Ah, Geoffrey!
What's that you have in your hand, boy?
Pass it over.
A telegram?
Oh, dear.
It seems someone has been 'biting me'...?
Fetch me my trousers at once!
No, not those. Those are my time travel trousers.
No, those are my tea trousers...
That's it! Those ones. My fighting trousers!
Ah, yeah!

Dear Sir,

Regarding your recent foray
into the rap business and the scene you portray,
See, I don't normally approve of war games,
But, 'He's biting you!' is what they all say.
And by Harry, they might be right!
This is hip hop, not an Elvis night.
Shelve this Professor impersonation,
Let it end now. It's impertinent waiting!
You seem a reasonable chap;
What you need to do is rap
and not parody chap hop,
'Cause that's not proper, just not cricket!
Put away your ukulele, or I'll tell where to stick it!

I
Don't like your tweed, sir!
Will
Teach you the professor's ready!
Not
Let's see who strikes the loudest!
Lose
Put on my fighting trousers!

I've got super producers, and fans that play me.
You've a granddad's mustache and a ukulele.
Don't look around, sir. I'm speaking to you!
Roll up your shirt sleeves, Queensbury rules.
Never test professors with the cleverest wits.
Let's settle this like gentlemen: Armed with heavy sticks.
On a rotating plate, with spikes like Flash Gordon.
And you're Peter Duncan, I gave you fair warning!
When this George Formby clone is performing
audiences go home before he begins talking.
A new career might be more rewarding.
I'm a right Brighton peer; you're rap's Piers Morgan!

I
Don't like your tweed, sir!
Will
Teach you the professor's ready!
Not
Let's see who strikes the loudest!
Lose
Put on my fighting trousers!

I'm not seeing you at ciphers or workshops with kids or gigs.
Dear sir, you're not worthy of this!
Sold out to Coca-Cola
used for a trend
and that means you're banned
from using a pen.
Hope it's safe to assume you won't do it again,
set foot on my stage and get ruined again.
Be out Mr. B, I set the egg timer.
There's not room in town for two gentlemen rhymers.
Leave town by the end of this instrumental.

Yours, et cetera, et cetera, sincerely, and so forth,
Professor Elemental.

I
Don't like your tweed, sir!
Will
Teach you the professor's ready!
Not
Let's see who strikes the loudest!
Lose
Put on my fighting trousers!

Uhh!
Sorry, I'm sorry Geoffrey
but it gets my goat
It gets my dander right up!
Bloody told 'em...

No, no Jazz solo
This is supposed to be a diss song!
Geoffrey, get off the drums!