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I know a place.
I know a place in a foreign land, name of Belgium.
The water stinks,
But the people think,
They think that it doesn’t.
They think that it doesn’t,
But it does,
I’m telling you, it stinks.
The feelings are gone,
It means nothing to you,
It means nothing to me.
This means nothing to me.
Oh, Vienna!
Hitler dwelt in this land,
And Van Morrisson was born here.
The Belgian police are very, very kind,
And invented the waltzers.
And the Belgian people spend all day drinking port.
So the feelings are gone,
It means nothing to me,
It means nothing to I.
Well, this means nothing to I.
Oh, Vienna!
Hello, hello, my Belgian friends.
Let us now make amends.
We English do not blame you,
For the destruction of the rest of Europe.
A difference, yes, In tongue and dress.
But a smile of the face of the Belgian police,
As they injure me and me family,
Injure me and me family.
My cup overflows with Viennese gin,
And I signal for more and the waiter arrives,
With a fox, with a fox,
In a cardboard box.
‘What is this?’, I cry.
Well, they weep, they weep,
But they never sleep.
The Belgian police, the Belgian police.
They weep, they weep,
But they never sleep,
Cos of the noise of the trains.
And hello, Sue, have you talked to ***.