dance, idiot, dance

Here comes Nicholas, fiddle in hand,
into a world that he cant understand.
You cant keep pace with the master race,
his feet theyre going all over the place
he cant see his moves cos theres egg on his face.
Dance, idiot, dance!

His bodys as stiff as a cold lasagne,
cos all he knows is Rule Brittannia.
His rhythms so bad that were supposin
maybe its cos his legs are frozen?
Shouldnt be wearing lederhosen!
Dance, idiot, dance!

Messianical look in his eye,
arms akimbo, slapping his thigh.
He wrinkles his snout at a likely wench
（weve censored her answer and pardoned her French）
its 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!