Uffington Wassail

Вступление

[Intro]

Oh say I’m not the only one to fill with trepidation

Walking across the forecourt of the fire station

My wariness consumes me, yet still protects me from

The dimmer switch and the membership of Britannia Music Club.

I adventured for a fortnight in the valley of the Rhone

Defied capricious mistrals on which tragedies are blown

Dismounting at the roadside to lubricate my chain

I heard the hounds of retribution barking their refrain:

Let’s go the Met Bar, and cause an altercation

Let’s go the Groucho, and snap at rakish heels.

For a month I went all floppy just to see where I’d end up

The morgue was my considered guess, or maybe Martinique

The stern grind of reality however took its course

I stayed exactly where I was and suffered endless Feltz.

Because you had a daughter and chose to call her Raine

Because you didn’t indicate to go down Woodchurch Lane

Your Am-Dram class had been postponed indefinitely

‘Cos the root of Jesse’s just turned up in glorious majesty.

Singing “Sealed Knot Society, let’s see you try and do this one:

Luton Town: Millwall, nineteen eighty-five”.

Hand me down my silver trumpets, sound the revolution bell

There’s a Cher impersonator rising up in Israel.

Late Lunch audience: we’ve got all your addresses

Lazy greedy farmers: pick your own strawberries

Is that our phone ringing or is it on the telly?

Let’s do the bongo-laced twenty-second album!

Vreni Schneider, you’re my downhill lady

Vreni Schneider, you’re the queen of the slopes

Vreni Schneider, you’re my downhill lady

Vreni Schneider, you’re the queen of the slopes.