It seems I can't get away from high browed faces

Talking about abolishing races

I've been around this place for way too long

I know that what you don't understand must be wrong

Well the Daily Mail must make you feel

Like your nasty little ways have mass appeal

You've got style, I must confess

For a piggy little hitler in a floral dress

I've got to get out of here

The smell of middle England gives me The Fear

I'm the story that makes you sick

And what's my crime? Well take your pick

It all seems a little unfair

Earth calling Tory land, anyone there?

You've got wisdom I must conclude

For a sheltered old yuppie who calls ignorance truth

Now one, two, three, four

Who's the piggy that we'll ignore?

Five, six, seven, eight

For all the immigrants who you hate

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve

You and your family values can rot in hell

You've got views, you proudly explain

But you're the hypnotised playing out a therapists game