Chumbawamba - Dance, Idiot, Dance - Текст песни

Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand, 
into a world that he can't understand. 
You can't keep pace with the master 
race, his feet they're going all over 
the place - he can't see his moves cos 
there's egg on his face. Dance, idiot, 
dance! His body's as stiff as 
a cold lasagne, 'cos all he knows is 
'Rule Brittannia'. His rhythm's so bad 
that we're supposin' - maybe it's cos 
his legs are frozen? Shouldn't be 
wearing lederhosen! Dance, idiot, 
dance! Messianical look in his eye, 
arms akimbo, slapping his thigh. He 
wrinkles his snout at a likely wench 
(we've censored her answer and 
pardoned her French) - it's hard for 
your average Ubermensch. Dance, 
idiot, dance! Poor old Nicholas got 
up today, to Cecil Sharpe House he 
made his way. Wore his uniform just 
to impress and said, "this must be the 
place, I guess, for joining the EFD-SS?" 
Dance, idiot, dance!