| Sing Ho! |
| for the A-bomb melody
|
| It merrily whistles down on me
|
| I’m wrapped in silver foil
|
| My blood is on the boil
|
| B 52's flutter coyly
|
| All I want is a flat in Berkeley Square
|
| With colour TV set, reclining chair
|
| Big box of Suchard for me to devour
|
| Antique grandfather clock, phone in the shower
|
| Hurrah! |
| for the missiles from heaven’s gate
|
| They syncopate gaily in 7/8
|
| I mambo to the sound
|
| Of Martels, air-to-ground
|
| I hear the baying of Bloodhounds
|
| All I require is a Rolls-Royce Corniche
|
| Cocktail cabinet for the nouveaux riches
|
| Persian carpets and Van Goghs in the boot
|
| Cardin 3-piece beneath my Noddy suit
|
| Hip! |
| Hip! |
| for machine gun, breve and rest
|
| It beats out a rhythm in my chest
|
| Crotchets in my belly
|
| Turn my legs to jelly
|
| Quavers are F sharp and L, G
|
| All I desire is a Swiss bank account
|
| Given an O.B.E. |
| and made a Count
|
| Country estate with a resident staff
|
| Acute angina and an epitaph |