The Polish beer, the Turkish kebabs
English cider, the wickets, the pads
The Bay City Rollers, the movements, the fads
The local crew, the posse, the lads

The lazy days, the Phoenix Nights
The reds, the blues, the blacks, the whites
The Southern belles, the Northern lights
The Bombay mix, the Scampi bites

The sink estates, the floating vote
The national anthem, the lump in the throat
The Indian summer, the Afghan coat
The Dunkirk spirit, the tiny boat

The Cornish pasty, the Holland Pie
The whet of Scotch, Canada Dry
Valley low, mountain high
London Pride, coconut shy

The teddy boys, the first rock rebels
To walk upon this land
Are queuing up at post office
With pension book in hand

The mods they're gradually balding
Resigning themselves to
A scooter slowly rusting
And a fading '62

The skinheads once the nemesis
Of black or white or brown
Are scared to talk to anyone
Or take the bus to town

The last of the Mohicans
Believing punk ain't dead
Regurgitates most everything
His mum and dad once said

The Cheddar gorge, the Chinese chips
The Yorkshire terrier, the Glasgow kiss
That lucky old sun, that old Scotch mist
Theatre of dreams or bowl of crisps

Let the Scousers burn by sunbed
Let it turn that city black
Let Cockney die under Marbella sky
And don't fly his body back

Let northerners of either rose
Run their ladas into tree
Whilst Midlanders and Brummies
Die by bollocks to the knee

Let the Welsh choke on their national song
A daffodil in hand
East Anglians across the way
Get buried by the sand

Let Cornwall, Devon, Somerset
Die worshipping the sun
A tsunami of indifference
Rains down on everyone

Let Geordie die of isolation
And if you go much further North
Let the Scottish and the Highlanders
Dine on heather and on goarse

Let aristocrats and ruling class
Die trying to cross their moat
Or accidentally catch themselves
On rusty nail or spoke

Let the middle classes blind themselves
With disapproving glance
And impale themselves upon the rail
Of never giving chance

And their call for war on poverty
Is a smokescreen we don't need
'Cause the only war worth fighting for
Is a war on their pure greed

England, Scotland, Wales
Heaven turned to hell
The car boot saved the village green
But the pub went in as well

And when that class of plenty plenty
Are given half the chance
They'll pack their bags and leave this place
And they'll fuck off down to France

Let's fight a war on greed
And not a war on poverty
Let's fight a war on greed
And not a war on poverty
Let's fight a war on greed
And not a war on poverty
Let's fight a war on greed
And not a war on poverty

'Cause from the granite roof of Aberdeen
To those red Lancastrian mills
Through the concrete jungle, Birmingham
To the gentle Mendip hills

From the pharmacies of Hackney Central
To the point where white cliff spills
This country more than ever
Needs it's pills

Yes we got griefs to fill our handkerchiefs
Drunks to tell us jokes
We got hard to hear stories
From oh so far away folks

We got doors left wide open
Windows that are bust
We got questions unanswered
But mainly we are just...

A country of contradictions
With it's heart and soul pulled out
We're a fountain of useless knowledge
In a thirty year long drought

We're the humble class, the only ones
Accused of actually any
Plugged into sky, we let out a sigh
And die without a penny