If you find life a race, you just can't stand the pace,
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Come with me to the West Country - the perfect hiding place:
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Pack your bags, and make your way to Somerset, and I will lay
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Ten to one you'll wanna stay down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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There's not a pub, there ain't a shop, you never see a traffic cop
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Drink up, and no-one says "stop", down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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That's where the cider's strong, the days, forty-eight hours long
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They've got frogs as big as dogs, that harmonise in song
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The pheasants all take part in shoots, the big barn owls don't give two hoots,
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All the fleas wear hobnail boots, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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Now they don't care for house or car, as long as they've a cider jar
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They've never heard of Ringo Starr, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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You never hear of rain or snow, no hail or sleet, or rough winds blow
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You can hear the grasses grow, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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Rabbits there as big as sows, the hens there look the size of cows
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All the pigs do Irish jigs, and pigeons pull the ploughs
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So leave me there, let me grow fat, and live and laugh, and after that
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Bury me in a cider vat, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
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Sleepy Nempnett Thrubwell, dear old Somerset.
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Down In Nempnett Thrubwell
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| The Wurzels |
