And so the the story begins:
City dweller, successful fella,
Thought to himself
"Oops I've got a lot of money,
I'm caught in a rat race terminally,
I'm a professional cynic
But my heart's not in it,
I'm paying the price
Of living life at the limit,
Caught up in the centuries anxiety"
It preys on him, he's getting thin...
He lives in a house,
A very big house in the country,
Watching afternoon repeats
And the food he eats in the country,
He takes all manner of pills
And piles up analyst bills
In the country,
It's like an animal farm,
Lots of rural charm
In the country...
He's got morning glory,
Life's a different story,
Everything going jackanory,
In touch with his own mortality...
He's reading balzac,
Knocking back prozac,
It's a helping hand
That makes you feel wonderfully bland,
Oh it's the centuries remedy,
For the faint at heart,
A new start.
He lives in a house,
A very big house in the country,
He's got a fog in his chest
So he needs a lot of rest
In the country,
He doesn't drink, smoke, laugh,
Takes herbal baths
In the country,
Says you come to no harm
On an animal farm
In the country...
In the country, in the country...
Blow, blow me out,
I am so sad, I don't know why...