The auctioneer is bidding for a box of fading years
And the Elephants are dancing on the graves of squealing mice.
Anyone for tennis?  Wouldn't that be nice.

And the ice-creams are all melting on the streets of bloody beer
While the beggars stain the pavements with fluorescent Christmas cheer
And the Bentley-driving guru is putting up his price.
Anyone for tennis?  Wouldn't that be nice.

And the prophets in the boutiques give out messages of hope
With jingle-bells and fairy tales and blind colliding scopes
And you can tell that all they're saying, underneath their pretty lies,
Anyone for tennis?  Wouldn't that be nice.

A yellow Buddhist monk is burning brightly at the zoo.
You can bring a bowl of rice and then a glass of water too,
An Fate is setting up the chessboard while Death rolls out the dice.
Anyone for tennis?  Wouldn't that be nice.