Now in My-tholm-royd in Yorkshire, one Saturday in June
All the village was preparing for the fete that afternoon
There were sideshows, stalls and roundabouts and every kind of game
But the village fete will never now be quite the same
For this pleasant country scene was transformed by a machine
Which belonged to Eddie Baker from the farm just down the road
With his tractor and his trailer and his load both sweet and pure
Five hundred imperial gallons of best liquified manure

Cho: Down the road went Eddie Baker in his rattling old boneshaker
And he never knew the trail he left behind him

Now Eddie quickly picked up speed on the track from Lower Lumb Farm
Though his load careered madly he never thought 'twould come to harm
And so noisy was the clatter and the crashes and the booms
He had to turn his old transistor up so he could hear the tunes
As he zoomed across a bump it triggered off the trailer's pump
And its hose discovered freedom it had never known before
It waved wildly round and round, from side to side and up and down
As spreading dung and desperation, Eddie sailed into the town

Now Jemima Smith and Barney from down the old folks' home
Were on their way to a lunchtime tipple at the Peacock and Trombone
She was adjusting of her spectacles to a admire a garden rose
When a blast from Eddie's onslaught whipped 'em right from off her nose
'Oh, gawd', says old Jemima, 'I've just had a funny turn
Oo , I feel or cold and clammy and how my skin does burn'
'Oh, speak up, dear', says Barney, as together they did cling
'It's short-circuited me deaf-aid, I can't hear a bleeding thing

Now the Icecream Factory Silver Band were warming up to play
To commence the celebrations of that very special day
When there appeared on their music dots they couldn't play too well
As with the gentle tang of Brasso mingled a new exciting smell
And their tunes all went awry as they hung 'em out to dry
And the sousaphone player played his last 'cause he sucked when he should have
blowed
There were different tunes in different times and all in different keys
And 'Nellie the Elephant' sounded more like 'The Flight of the Bumble Bee'

Now the greasy pole was greasier than ever known before
And the ice cream had a chocolate sauce no palate could ignore
And into the coffee-coloured candy-floss Grannie Walker plunged her teeth
And for evermore the ones on top were stuck to the ones beneath
And in the tug-o-war there were broken bones galore
There was blood all round the bottle stall as both teams slithered through
There was chaos round the cake stall and the tea was more like glue
'Cause you didn't just get sugar when they asked, 'One lump or two?'

Now Geraldine the Carnival Queen was looking all forlorn
She got browner than she bargained for as she sunbathed on the lawn
And it gave a fatal heart attack to next-door's Pekinese
Whilst upon its back a skating match took place among its fleas
And the force of the cascade swept through the goldfish of Miss Blade
Right up into the hanging basket down at number twenty-three
And it dumped the Johnson's tortoise in the bird bath at the Jones'
And wiped the smile right off the faces of their plastic garden gnomes

Now the Reverend Roderick Butterworth was sitting down to eat
When the perilous plague of pestilence came belting down the street
Some of it fell among the thorns, some fell on stony ground
And some fell on his car outside with all his windows down
'Oh, bugger!', said the vicar, as he swigged some demon liquor
'I suppose we should be thankful that it's not St Swithin's Day
But even my insurance doesn't cover act of God
And I know the scouts are going to say, "Stuff this for bob-a-job"'

So he trundled through the village, down the road and past the hall
And where he'd been for years after all the weeds grew ten feet tall
And he never knew the chaos that he'd caused along his way
And he never heard the crashes as he crossed the motorway
And in time he'll dwell on high in that great muckheap in the sky
Where St Peter'll dive for cover every time he passes by
It'll rust up all their haloes, it'll clog up all their wings
As, wiping shit from off their faces, all the angels they will sing