pop music as popsicle, done donner und blitzen,
with men dressed as vampires and girls as sweet kittens,
votes cast in politics by heavies with muscles,
from berlin to beiritz, from belfast to brussels.
commentary by wogan all irish and camp
with music from wallmart all dreadful and damp.
sounds from the urals like the volga it creeps
whilst deep in his grave shostakovitch weeps.

god bless old europe with its laws and rebates
as the brits stand outside its magnificent gates
still dreaming of empire, all billy no mates
dragging their feet to the march of the states
whose attention they stand obeying their dictates
whilst the veener of new europe plays a plastic tune
a glittery note from a broken bassoon
that is watched by millions who vote with accord
to the various tribes who gather in hordes
but the music's still fake and so is the applause.