Sorry to leave you in the lurch
Inbetween the sweatshop and the church
All the white-haired social wowsers
Talk about the weather round the petrol bowsers
And you're left holding the baby
With a promise so weak it passed as a maybe
Smalltown fever consumes the populace
Wake up scratching their heads
What will they do today
Nobody suffers from a wild imagination
Just assess, reassess, the situation
Spill out their troubles on the dirt track home
Where the gloves are off and you're lying alone
Pitching heaven and catching hell
Half a life spent at the RSL
Spurious speeches made
Society ladies laid
I've learned some things won't penetrate
So I leave this village to its fete
Instructions on being frightfully bored
For which you'll no doubt win an encouragement award