In the Garden of England, dead moles lie inside their holes
The dead-end tunnels crumble in the rain underfoot - innit a shame?

Can't you see them?
Roots can't hold them
Nor bugs console them

I fight with the handle of my little brown broom
I pull out the wires of the telephone
I hurt in the head and I hurt in the aching bone
Now I smash up the telly with remains of the broken phone
I'm fighting for the crust of the little brown loaf
I want it, I want it, I want it! Give it to me!
(I give it you back when I finish the lunch/tea)

I lie in the road trying the trip up the passing cars
Yes, me and the hedge-dog, we're bursting the tyres all day
As we roll down the highway towards the setting sun
I reflect on the life of the highwayman, yum-yum
Now I smash up the telly and what's left of the broken phone

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