| There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
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| From Granny Farming In The UK
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| To Heartbreak Hotel
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| And there’s eight million stories of cruelty to tell
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| As the medicine goes down
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| There’s one currant bun in the baker’s shop
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| Who’s beaten like an egg till he bruises like an apricot
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| Squeezed between the legs and strangled with a football sock
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| And the medicine goes down
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| And it’s as clear as a bell and the colour of your cheeks
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| And the piss awful smell of the blankets and the sheets
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| This ain’t no charabanc, no Derby and Joan
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| And this place is no place like home
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| And the nurses will hold you and ask you how you feel
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| But it’s back to the dole queue for any of them who squeal
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| From Granny Farming In The UK to Heartbreak Hotel
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| There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
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| No letters, no postcards, no whisky, no pets
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| No Derby and Joan club and no cigarettes
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| No day trips to the seaside, no nights on the town
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| No boiled beef and carrots and the medicine goes down
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| No handles on the windows, no lights on the stairs
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| It’s way past your bedtime and nobody cares
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| From Granny Farming In The UK to Heartbreak Hotel
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| There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
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| And the post man rings twice with a telegram from the Queen
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| Your legs turn to red to amber and green
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| Your heart jumps the lights and you fall to the ground
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| And your death is the talk of the town |