Tralala, Trala–, Tra-a-la, –la
Tralala, Trala–, Tra-a-la, –la
Tralala, Trala–, Tra-a
In your snatch fits pleasure, broom-shaped pleasure
Deep greedy and googling every corner
La, Trala–, Tra-a-la, –la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Dead in the middle
Of the C-O-double-M O-N
Little did I know then
That the Mandela Boys soon become Mandela Men
Tall woman
Pull the pylons down
And wrap them around the necks
Of all the feckless men that queue to be the next
Steepled fingers
Ring la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-leaders
Queue-queue jumpers
Rock, fist, paper, scissors, la-la-la-la-la-la-lingered fluffers
They choir:
In your hoof lies the heartland
Where we tent for our treasure, pleasure, leisure
Les yeux, it's all in your eyes
In your snatch fits pleasure, a broom-shaped pleasure
Deep greedy and googling every corner
Tralala, Trala–, Tra-a-la, –la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Oh, oh, oh, oh, blinded by the lights