[Intro] (Cheerful birds chirping) (Distant, slightly out-of-tune brass band playing a jaunty march) (Sound of a tea cup shattering) (Laughter that slowly pitch-shifts into a low-frequency hum) [Verse 1] Three o’clock on the cricket green The quietest chaos you’ve ever seen Mrs. Higgins brought the lemon tart Infused with the nectar of a dying star’s heart The bunting is breathing, the tea urn is screaming The Mayor’s third eye is pulsing and gleaming I looked at a scone and it whispered my name Then it burst into purple and neon-green flame [Pre-Chorus] The raffle is rigged by the lords of the void The concept of gravity has been destroyed The prize is a hamper of cosmic despair And everyone’s teeth are beginning to flare [Chorus] Oh, it’s a village fete on a hundred mikes The kids are all riding on ghost-motorbikes The Vicar is naked and shouting in Greek While a translucent badger is stroking his cheek The tombola’s spinning a hole in the sky We’re all going to live, we’re all going to die Pass me the jam, the one made of souls Reality’s leaking through the punch-bowl holes [Verse 2] The pony ride’s galloping through the Fourth Dimension The Parish Council is beyond all redemption Old Arthur’s face is a melting clock He’s trying to swallow a sentient rock The bouncy castle is a pulsing lung A thousand wet bells have just been un-rung The flowers are singing a hymn to the sun God, I love a day of family fun [Bridge] (Tempo doubles) (Aggressive distorted synth bass enters) The grass is made of tiny hands Reaching up from distant lands The sky is a bruise that refuses to heal Nothing is fake, but nothing is real! (Screamed) WHY IS THE DOG ASKING FOR MY NATIONAL INSURANCE NUMBER? [Breakdown] (Sound of a brass band being fed into a woodchipper) (Heavy, rhythmic breathing) (Whispered: One pound fifty for a go on the human-meat-slide) [Final Chorus] Oh, it’s a village fete on a hundred mikes The kids are all riding on ghost-motorbikes The Vicar is naked and shouting in Greek While a translucent badger is stroking his cheek The tombola’s spinning a hole in the sky We’re all going to live, we’re all going to die Pass me the jam, the one made of souls Reality’s leaking through the punch-bowl holes [Outro] (The brass band returns, slow and mournful) Everything’s wet The bunting is gone I can see the music And the music is wrong (Sound of a distant police siren) (Gentle, echoing bird chirp) [End]
