Lyrics
You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you to
Lobster red, nothing said
When yellow has turned green to brown, divide by four
Multiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derision
Lobster head and lobster feet
On arriving with a third language
Tucked into your briefcase, next to your toothbrush
Along with a copy of the Nouvelle Observateure
While your sons and daughters who registered nought
Under intensive electronic scanning
You regard your body with regard to events
Which with nothing planned
Never lacked a sense of theatre
On returning with the tan you've gained
A head of world service, the best of your culture
An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream
