Из альбома: Folkémon
At the vanguard of a juddering caravan,
hurriedly galloping down a dirt-track
Six furtive figures, crooked as Caliban;
Smuggling hope to the land of the claque
Weary, hoarse-riders; irksomely blistered
Spent from a decade a-roving the road
Frigging a jig for our brothers and sisters;
Stark-raving-madrigals by the cartload
Without trepidation I sing in laudation;
Vocal salute to all travelling tinkers
Vagabond nation joined in congregation
United free-thinkers cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
Chorus:
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade
Maybe Jay's smashed (?), drumming up passion;
Scarring forever with each brisk tattoo
Bean's in the place so bass is in fashion,
killing us all with his amp set on 2
Watch out for Ridley The Raucously Tiddly,
Unplugged he's no Dr Jekyllso Hyde!
Desperate-Dan-Ramsey; deft fingers diddle
Watching The Match on a telly stage-side
The cat on the fiddle, Miss Georgie Biddle;
Keeping it reeling with her fugue electric
Stuck in the middle I'll rhyme you a riddle;
Irate and eclectic my cry from the bryony;
"Any old irony?!"
Chorus:
Come one, come all to our travelling circus;
Cast-off your cares for the painted parade
Whirl down the wynd like dervish-berserkers;
If life hands us lemons; we'll make lemonade