Granny Farming in the U.K.

There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
From Granny Farming In The UK
To Heartbreak Hotel
And there’s eight million stories of cruelty to tell
As the medicine goes down
There’s one currant bun in the baker’s shop
Who’s beaten like an egg till he bruises like an apricot
Squeezed between the legs and strangled with a football sock
And the medicine goes down
And it’s as clear as a bell and the colour of your cheeks
And the piss awful smell of the blankets and the sheets
This ain’t no charabanc, no Derby and Joan
And this place is no place like home
And the nurses will hold you and ask you how you feel
But it’s back to the dole queue for any of them who squeal
From Granny Farming In The UK to Heartbreak Hotel
There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
No letters, no postcards, no whisky, no pets
No Derby and Joan club and no cigarettes
No day trips to the seaside, no nights on the town
No boiled beef and carrots and the medicine goes down
No handles on the windows, no lights on the stairs
It’s way past your bedtime and nobody cares
From Granny Farming In The UK to Heartbreak Hotel
There’s twenty five tunes on the visitors bell
And the post man rings twice with a telegram from the Queen
Your legs turn to red to amber and green
Your heart jumps the lights and you fall to the ground
And your death is the talk of the town