Dance, Idiot, Dance

Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand,
into a world that he can't understand.
You can't keep pace with the master race,
his feet they're going all over the place
he can't see his moves cos there's egg on his face.
Dance, idiot, dance!

His body's as stiff as a cold lasagne,
'cos all he knows is 'Rule Brittannia'.
His rhythm's so bad that we're supposin'
maybe it's cos his legs are frozen?
Shouldn't be wearing lederhosen!
Dance, idiot, dance!

Messianical look in his eye,
arms akimbo, slapping his thigh.
He wrinkles his snout at a likely wench
（we've censored her answer and pardoned her French）
it's hard for your average Ubermensch.
Dance, idiot, dance!

Poor old Nicholas got up today,
to Cecil Sharpe House he made his way.
Wore his uniform just to impress and said,
"this must be the place, I guess, for joining the EFD-SS?"
Dance, idiot, dance!