Tra-la-la, tra-la, tra-a-la La, tra-la-la, tra-la, tra-a-la La, tra-la-la, tra-la, tra-a-la La, tra-la-la, tra-la, tra-la In your snatch fits pleasure, broom-shaped pleasure Deep greedy and googling every corner La, tra-la, tra-a-la, la-la-la-la-la-la-la Dead in the middle Of the C-O-double-M O-N Little did I know then That the Mandela Boys soon become Mandela Men Pull the pylons down And wrap them around the necks Of all the feckless men that queue to be the next Steepled fingers Ring la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-leaders Queue-queue Jumpers Rock, fist, paper, scissors, la-la-la-la-la-la-lingered fluffers They choir: In your hoof lies the heartland Where we tent for our treasure, pleasure, leisure Les yeux, it's all in your eyes In your snatch fits pleasure, a broom-shaped pleasure Deep greedy and googling every corner Tralala, trala, tra-la, la-la-la-la-la-la-la Oh, oh, oh, oh, blended by the lights