And here's to you, Mrs. Robertson,
Jesus knows that you'll have had your tea.
(Hee hee hee.)
God-forsaken place that is Edinburgh,
Heaven lies just fifty miles away.
(Kenneth Hay!)
(Kenneth Hay!)
I'd rather be castrated,
Have a bad case of the piles.
I'd rather be fellated by an elf.
Look around you,
All you see are people you despise.
Turn around the car,
And take the M8 home.
And here's to you, Mrs. Robertson,
Jesus knows that you'll have had your tea.
(Hee hee hee.)
God-forsaken place that is Edinburgh,
Heaven lies just fifty miles away.
(Kenneth Hay!)
(Kenneth Hay!)
Losers of the human race,
Whom no-one wants to know.
Whyever do your people run the country?
It's a well-known secret,
But it's not exactly fair.
Most of all, we hate seeing you
On shortbread tins.
O, look at you, Mrs. Robertson,
Jesus knows that you'll have had your tea.
(Hee hee hee.)
God-forsaken place that is Edinburgh,
Heaven lies just fifty miles away.
(Kenneth Hay!)
(Kenneth Hay!)
"Where are we going,
This fine Sunday afternoon?"
"Going to the city that you hate."
Hear that accent,
Scratch you eyes out.
They probably hate you.
Ev'ry way you look at it you lose.
"Why have we come, my dear Daddio?
I hate this bloody city, so do you."
(Boo hoo hoo.)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robertson?
I've not had my tea:
It's half past two.
You damn fool. |