Oh, the glass bowl glows as the glass blower blows,
a tiny glass swan from his blow pipe flows,
a huff, not a wind blasts into the bowl,
producing these goods here on his stall.
Oh, your delicate swans may well appeal,
but come take a look at my wainwright’s wheel,
the rim, the hubs, the spokes so central,
preferring glass swans, you must be mental.
Le pain de la mer dans le nuit,
the sweet, sweet sea bread of the sea,
les grands garcons est dans la boucherie,
the big boys are in the butchers.
Oh, the dirt here is seen as the dry cleaner cleans,
some sick out of his hat and some blood encrusted jeans,
your wheel is round, that I doubt not,
but my dry cleaning drum is both round and yet hot.
I’m beautifully dressed,
you’re clearly obsessed,
but you’ve not impressed the bloke from Go West.
But what does he know?
I’ll tell you, you fool, he hides Ribena under his stool.
Le pain de la mer dans le nuit,
the sweet, sweet sea bread of the sea,
le grands garcons est dans la boucherie,
the big boys are in the butchers.
