Dance, Idiot, Dance

Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand,

into a world that he can't understand.

You can't keep pace with the master

race, his feet they're going all over

the place - he can't see his moves cos

there's egg on his face. Dance, idiot,

dance! His body's as stiff as

a cold lasagne, 'cos all he knows is

'Rule Brittannia'. His rhythm's so bad

that we're supposin' - maybe it's cos

his legs are frozen? Shouldn't be

wearing lederhosen! Dance, idiot,

dance! Messianical look in his eye,

arms akimbo, slapping his thigh. He

wrinkles his snout at a likely wench

(we've censored her answer and

pardoned her French) - it's hard for

your average Ubermensch. Dance,

idiot, dance! Poor old Nicholas got

up today, to Cecil Sharpe House he

made his way. Wore his uniform just

to impress and said, "this must be the

place, I guess, for joining the EFD-SS?"

Dance, idiot, dance!