[Intro: Big Drums, gang chant rising] Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! [Spoken, mock-herald] Hear ye, hear ye, gather round and learn, The tale of the pan, and the man, and the turn — [Verse 1: Sung, folk-punk gallop] He dropped into Pochinki with nary a gun, A pistol with three rounds and a prayer to the sun, He scoured every doorway, he rifled every shack, 'Til he opened up a cupboard and he never looked back — For there in the gloom, on a shelf made of pine, Lay a relic, lay a wonder, lay a weapon divine, Wrought of finest cast iron, blacker than sin, And the angels sang hosanna as he tucked it within. [Pre-Chorus: Spoken, mounting reverence] He drew it from his arse like Arthur drew the steel, And he knew, lads, oh he knew, how the prophecy would feel — [Chorus: Gang vocals, full pub-singalong] THE PAN! THE PAN! THE HOLY FRYING PAN! Bulletproof and beautiful, the saviour of the man! A knight without a rifle, a king without a crown, With a saucepan on his shoulder and the whole damn lobby down! THE PAN! THE PAN! BLESSED BE THE PAN! [Verse 2: Sung, faster, comedic build] A sniper on a hilltop, eight-times to his eye, Squeezed the trigger, sent a bullet that was certain he would die — But it pinged off the cookware with a holy little clang, And the sniper wept in terror as the cast iron sang. A squad came in a buggy with their level three array, He met them in the middle of the Mylta Power way, He swung it like a broadsword, he swung it like a bell, And he sent all four of them to videogame hell. [Bridge: Spoken, mock-epic, slowing] And when the final circle closed upon the field, And one last foe remained, with a rifle and a shield, Our hero did not raise a gun, our hero did not run — He hefted up his cookware and he grinned into the sun. "You may have all your scopes, lad, you may have all your kit, But a pan is what a man brings when he's serious 'bout it." [Chorus: Gang vocals, even bigger] THE PAN! THE PAN! THE HOLY FRYING PAN! Bulletproof and beautiful, the saviour of the man! A knight without a rifle, a king without a crown, With a saucepan on his shoulder and the whole damn lobby down! THE PAN! THE PAN! BLESSED BE THE PAN! [Outro: Spoken, reverent] And they buried him with honours, And they buried him with grace, And they laid that holy cookware On the centre of his face. [Gang vocals, fading] Pan… pan… pan… [End]
