[Verse 1]
Three encores of "Oh Sonny Boy" backed only by accordion
Three rows of pale brunettes protect him from the crowd
The curtain is a patchwork of imitation vermillion
And a red bulb hangs over the throne that has been found
[Refrain]
This is the scene on Main Street when John Fifty comes to town
Yes, this is the scene on Main Street when John Fifty comes to town
Simple
[Verse 2]
Crowds of every age, creed and gender are abound
Signor kitsch sings skits detailing each attendees sins
The first time anteaters lose themselvеs in the wings
With vigour they scratch red spots, ovеrwhelmed by their king
[Bridge]
In all the world there's no escape from this infernal din
In all the world there’s no escape from this infernal din
[Verse 3]
“Children of Bethlehem, come all boys and girls
Come listen to these, my eternal words
Judge not who you see by whatever they may say
But by their round eyes, lips, noses, ears and curves"
John Fifty is in tatters, his soapbox usurped
His torn robes adorn the tree stumps of the earth
No hack with an army will last long before he
Breeds men who yearn for their own bloody glory
Three encores of "Oh Sonny Boy" backed only by accordion
Three rows of pale brunettes protect him from the crowd
The curtain is a patchwork of imitation vermillion
And a red bulb hangs over the throne that has been found
[Refrain]
This is the scene on Main Street when John Fifty comes to town
Yes, this is the scene on Main Street when John Fifty comes to town
Simple
[Verse 2]
Crowds of every age, creed and gender are abound
Signor kitsch sings skits detailing each attendees sins
The first time anteaters lose themselvеs in the wings
With vigour they scratch red spots, ovеrwhelmed by their king
[Bridge]
In all the world there's no escape from this infernal din
In all the world there’s no escape from this infernal din
[Verse 3]
“Children of Bethlehem, come all boys and girls
Come listen to these, my eternal words
Judge not who you see by whatever they may say
But by their round eyes, lips, noses, ears and curves"
John Fifty is in tatters, his soapbox usurped
His torn robes adorn the tree stumps of the earth
No hack with an army will last long before he
Breeds men who yearn for their own bloody glory
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