It´s six a.m. and even Big Ben
Is trying to get his head down for a kip
But no sooner is it down
And then it´s on with dressing gown
For this city very rarely loses grip

But I have a friend who´s never up by ten
He´s fast asleep with mouth open wide
He´s lost a lot of jobs but he´s won a lot of friends
And he says to me he cannot tell the time

It´s seven a.m. and we´re coughing up the phlegm
Spitting out the taste of night before
And we´ll vomit and we´ll choke
Just to climb their tatty rope
Well this city has its charm and its claw

And he´ll blame his clock
Or he´ll say he´s lost his socks
And they´ll tell you that he´s been bitten by a snake
His excuses are an art
From the bottom of his heart
And he thinks of them whenever he awakes

It´s eight a.m. and we´re on the road again
Racing for a placing at the top
And it says green for go
For the people in the know
But for the others all it says is red for stop

It´s cold and it´s damp
And they´ve dug him a grave
And the ten fifteen merchants still in bed
And scrawled upon the headboard
For the whole wide world to see
"Died In The Arms Of Big Ted"