[Verse 1] Well you can go a bit nuts out here Spending all day looking for your cigarettes or your glasses Or plugged into high-minded conspiracy theories About all the piano-playing cats Trained by the government and uploaded by devious civil servants To subdue your mind I guess that’s why people say that musical pets Are the new opiates of the masses But just don’t forget Nobody actually says that [Verse 2] And it’s true The true oddballs are stationed in the market towns And all you meet Are ex-military personnel With dark browsing histories Or children’s entertainers With questionable intentions And all the village shops And all the village shops are definitely manned by robots [Verse 3] So is this the kind of catharsis you were after? Strange shapes appear in the mirror when you’re not there And you can hear people’s skin crack at regular intervals Oh, when the sun comes out They’ve got your number They’ll be seeing you Better stay in from here on in [Verse 4] And sometimes when you close your eyes There’s grinning Jimmy Saviles painted on your inner eyelids Other times it’s Yoko Onos on treadmills Stretching out into infinity Or there’s Kermit the Frog doing up his flies On the beach, on repeat These things all reinforce the need For a proper occupation [Verse 5] Find clipped toenails still growing near the basin A little camera in the shape of a bit of eggshell in the bread bin Surveillance wires disguised as bits of spaghetti Down the side of the oven Looks like the cleaner's not working [Bridge] Today the birds are flying unusually low to the ground And the insects are flying unusually close to the clouds There’s all sorts of inversions that you need to get your head around Clerical workers are lurking in the long grass With remote controls, dog shit bags and their sons And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks [Verse 6] Make some elderflower wine, or some sourdough Well that’s the kind of thing you’re meant to do around here Wrap it up in old brown paper and you can sell it for a fortune To all the city weekenders [Outro] If only you didn’t have the weird feeling That your arm is not your arm That your arm is not your arm And the strange plants growing in the outcrop near the village Have been plagiarising your dreams And everything’s conducted in hushed tones In the market towns