Texty: Beautiful South. From Under The Covers.

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 it's on with dressing gown
While 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 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 merchant's still in bed
And scrawled upon the headboard for the whole wide world to see
Is 'Died In The Arms Of Big Ted'