English Scheme - The Fall

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 freak creep in us all

He’s the freak creep in us all

Condescends to black men

Very nice to them

They talk of Chile while driving through Haslingden

You got sixty hour weeks, and stone toilet back gardens

Peter Cook’s jokes, bad dope, check shirts, fancy groups

Point their fingers at America

Down pokey quaint streets in Cambridge

Cycle our distant spastic heritage

It’s a gay red, roundhead, army career, bread head

If we were smart we’d emigrate