[Intro - A fast, galloping drum beat starts, like a horse at full tilt, joined by a screeching fiddle] [Verse 1] Sir Lancelot-The-Less was a chinless, posh-voiced twit, With a shiny suit of armor and a horse that smelled of... grit. He didn't like this "Master Kev" or his noisy iron sow, So he threw a silver gauntlet and he demanded a "What-for" now! Kev looked up from his grease-rag, wiped a smudge of oil away, Said, "I’ve got three football pitches and a park to do today, But if you want a scrap, my son, let’s settle it on the grass, I’ll show you why a council lad is in a different class!" [beat drop - a loud, mechanical "clunk" and the engine roars] [Chorus - Roaring, fast-paced folk-punk] Oh, it’s a gallop vs a gear-box, a lance against a blade! The strangest bloody tournament that Cornwall ever made! The knight is on a stallion, Kev is on a seat, With his levers in his hands and his steel-toed on his feet! (Steel-toed!) From the castle to the bypass, let the trumpets play their tune, Kev’s going to mow his dignity before the afternoon! [Verse 2 - Dense, witty rhymes with a heavy accent] The knight came charging down the lane, a toothpick in his hand, Looking like a fancy tin of biscuits on the sand. Kev just pulled the throttle back and let the four-stroke scream, A cloud of blueish exhaust smoke like a horticultural dream. The horse saw the hi-vis, heard the roar, and lost its tiny mind, It pulled a sharp U-turn and left the knight a mile behind! Kev didn't even flinch, he just adjusted his height-deck, While Lancelot was screaming, "What the devil? What the heck?" [Fiddle solo - fast and chaotic, mimicking a horse bolting] [Verse 3 - Deadpan and pithy] The knight fell off his saddle with a clatter and a clang, He looked like a dropped toolbox when the heavy mower sang. Kev drove right up beside him, doing four miles per hour tops, While the peasants cheered so loudly that they dropped their turnip crops. "You’re disqualified!" the Herald cried, "That beast has got no legs!" Kev said, "It’s got a cup holder, mate, for my cider and my eggs. He’s lucky I didn't engage the blades, or he’d be silver-plated confetti, Now move your horse, Sir Posh-Alot, I’m feeling rather sweaty." [pause] (Get out the way, you plum!) [pause] [Bridge - Heavy, rhythmic stomping and clapping] The King sat on his balcony and spilled his royal wine, He said, "I want a thousand of those beasts, and I want 'em all in line! Who needs a cavalry of knights who always want a raise, When Kev can clear a battlefield in a petrol-scented haze?" [Chorus - Evolved, even more raucous] Oh, it’s a gallop vs a gear-box, a lance against a blade! The funniest bloody tournament that Cornwall ever made! The knight’s in the infirmary, Kev’s in the canteen, The undisputed champion of the iron-mowing-machine! (Proper job!) He’s the master of the jousting and he’s winning every prize, With a council-issue spirit and the fire in his eyes! [Outro - Slowing down with a jaunty banjo riff] "I'll tell you what, Milord..." "If you want that horse trimmed, I can do it for a tenner." "But keep the tail away from the intake." "Nasty business, that." [Final loud mechanical backfire] [End]
