Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand,
|
into a world that he can't understand.
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You can't keep pace with the master
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race, his feet they're going all over
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the place - he can't see his moves cos
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there's egg on his face. Dance, idiot,
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dance! His body's as stiff as
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a cold lasagne, 'cos all he knows is
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'Rule Brittannia'. His rhythm's so bad
|
that we're supposin' - maybe it's cos
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his legs are frozen? Shouldn't be
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wearing lederhosen! Dance, idiot,
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dance! Messianical look in his eye,
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arms akimbo, slapping his thigh. He
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wrinkles his snout at a likely wench
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(we've censored her answer and
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pardoned her French) - it's hard for
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your average Ubermensch. Dance,
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idiot, dance! Poor old Nicholas got
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up today, to Cecil Sharpe House he
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made his way. Wore his uniform just
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to impress and said, "this must be the
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place, I guess, for joining the EFD-SS?"
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Dance, idiot, dance!
|
|
-----------------
|
Dance, Idiot, Dance
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| Chumbawamba |
