Below the haze of a sun-drenched spireOf a ruined abbot's remaining towerLies a market town in WorcestershireOld market gardeners bring their fruit and veg yieldsIt's this little island, it's a upfieldAnd nothing much moves to under the sinking sunExcept for lorries to the canneries, carrying plumsA figure on the high-row as he ambles into townFor Friday evening is always there about this timeA red coat of dust and his hobnob bootsA black wool finish and his well-worn suitOak bark skin, squinting eyeDeep wood, hook nose, broken thighsWool hooks in his pocket, he whistles like a larkRaisin in his waistcoat, a faithful as to shout the roadWith deep, dark sparkle, spiky white shinesAs into six o'clock's shadow, he's right on timeThe road is his home, the ditch is his billetHe's got the hat and his hat, but that doesn't matter at allThe sun may call him raggaruffin, but I'm not any strokerAny brisk meddling may I do well, vagabond and loaferOnly one to go has got the herb of viciousnessBut fortunately this time it's the dancing deadHe's dancing Diddy Kong, dancing Diddy KongSince he was a boy, he's been a dancing deadThe back door, the blue bar, the jukeboxIt's a country and western soundWhere he stands surrounded by a crowdAnd right up to the side with in his handHe says, don't forget that's the crowdThe sun may call him raggaruffin, but I'm not any strokerAny brisk meddling may I do well, vagabond and loaferOnly one to go has got the herb of viciousnessBut fortunately this time it's the dancing deadHe's dancing Diddy Kong, dancing Diddy KongSince he was a boy, he's been a dancing deadThe dancing Diddy Kong, the dancing Diddy KongSince he was a boy, he's been a dancing dead*