Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
Into a world that he can't understand
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
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
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
'Cos all he knows is 'Rule Brittannia'
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
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
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
Arms akimbo, slapping his thigh
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
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
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
To Cecil Sharpe House he made his way
[Dance, idiot, dance!]
Wore his uniform just to impress
And said, "this must be the place, I guess -
For joining the EFD-SS?"
Dance, idiot, dance!
