| In nineteen hundred and eighty six |
| There’s not much for a chippie but swinging a pick |
| And you can’t live on love, on love alone |
| So you sail cross the ocean, away cross the foam |
| To where you’re a Paddy, a Biddy or a Mick |
| Good for nothing but stacking a brick |
| Your best mate’s a spade and he carries a hod |
| Two work horses heavily shod |
| Oh I’m missing you |
| I’d give all for the price of a flight |
| Oh I’m missing you |
| Under Piccadilly’s neon |
| Who did you murder, are you a spy? |
| I’m just fond of a drink helps me laugh, helps me cry |
| So I just drink red biddy for a permanent high |
| I laugh a lot less and I’ll cry till I die |
| All ye young people now take my advice |
| Before crossing the ocean you’d better think twice |
| Cause you can’t live without love, without love alone |
| The proof is round London in the nobody zone |
| Where the summer is fine, but the winter’s a fridge |
| Wrapped up in old cardboard under Charing Cross Bridge |
| And I’ll never go home now because of the shame |
| Of misfit’s reflection in a shop window pane |