Roll up, roll up, roll up, roll up
For the sordid broken bus
The train line’s dead
You’ve got this instead
But it sure ain’t down to us.
Baldies, coughing Yugoslavians
Air hostess with perfect nylons
Camp in glasses
Punk in hat
Almost sleeping almost sat
Back behind me angry couple
Haven’t spoken.. he’s in trouble
Roll on Brighton, roll on bed
Mr.Marples must be dead.
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