My my, what a guy in long line
Of high fly, blow dry, simple Simon, magic eye
Oh no, he's gonna buy a Van Gogh
He doesn't really like it

But put your head in your hands
Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah
We are the also rans
We'll be your moral guidance
Distance, distance, distance, distance

Oh no, he's a tramp in an old band
Walk though, sleep rough, killing with his big hands
He's happy in his own kind of way
But he doesn't really know it

But put your head in your hands
Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah
We are the also rans
We'll be your moral guidance
Distance, distance, distance, distance

Leave, leave, with your fears and your pet hates
Down south, big mouth, evening with your work mates
At nine we're gonna see The Young Knives
Nobody really likes them

But put your head in the sand
Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah
We are the also rans
We'll be your guardian angels
Distance