English Scheme - Live

O'er grassy dale, and lowland scene
 Come see, come hear, the English Scheme.
 The lower-class, want brass, bad chests, scrounge fags.
 The clever ones tend to emigrate
 Like your psychotic big brother, who left home
 For jobs in Holland, Munich, Rome
 He's thick but he struck it rich, switch
 The commune crap, camp bop, middle-class, flip-flop
 Guess that's why they end up in bands
 He's the green piece in us all
 He's the creep-creep in us all
 Condescends to black men
 Very nice to them
 They talk of Chile while driving through Haslingdon
 You got sixty hour weeks, and stone stone toilet back-gardens
 Peter Cook's jokes, bad dope, check shirts, lousy groups
 Point their fingers at America
 Down pokey quaint streets in Cambridge
 Cycles our distant spastic heritage
 Its a gay red, roundhead, army career, grim head
 If we was smart we'd emigrate.