In the garden of England
Dead moles lie inside their holes
The dead-end tunnels crumble
In the rain, underfoot
Innit a shame?
Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
Roots can't hold them
Bugs console them
Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
Roots can't hold them
Bugs console them
Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
(repeat to fade)
I fight with the handle of my little brown broom
I pull out the wires of the telephone
I hurt in the head, and I hurt in the aching bone
Now I smash up the telly with remains of the broken phone
I fighting for the crust of the little brown loaf
I want it, I want it, I want it, give it to me
I give it you back when I finish the lunchtea
I lie in the road, try to trip up the pa**ing cars
Yes, me and the hedgehog, we bursting the tyres all day
As we roll down the highway towards the setting sun
I reflect on the life of the highwayman, yum yum
Now I smash up the telly and what's left of the broken phone