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