Fergus Laing is a beast of a man
He stitches up and fleeces
He wants to manicure the world
And sell it off in pieces
He likes to build his towers high
He blocks the sun out of the sky
In the penthouse the champagne’s dry
And slightly gassy

Fergus Laing he works so hard
A'busy as a bee is
Fergus Laing has 17 friends
All as dull as he is
A'17 friends, a'17 wives
All the perfect shape and size
They wag their tails and bat their eyes
Just like Lassie

Fergus Laing he builds and builds
Yet small is his erection
Fergus Laing has a fine head of hair
When the wind’s in the right direction
The wind's in the right direction

Fergus Laing and his 17 friends
They live inside a bubble
There they withdraw and shut the door
At any sign of trouble
Should the peasants wail and vent
And ask him where the money went
He’ll simply say, it’s all been spent
On being classy
Fergus’ buildings reach the sky
Until you cannot see ‘em
He thinks the old stuff he pulls down
Belongs in a museum
His own fair home is a nutward
And every tool a (?)
Hung with Picasso, hung with (?)
But nothing brassy

(Chorus)