In July,
I went across to Uruguay,
Packed all my best trousers,
My pants and my socks, my shirt and tie,
Got on the bus to Heathrow,
bought all my Duty Frees:
A litre of scotch, a big quartz watch, tobacco and toiletries;
Got there, walked into a violent right-wing coup,
I saw it from a bedroom with a view
(Yes it’s true)
And my hotel was the rebels’ HQ,
Hungry: ordered up a big room-service tea,
Yes they brought it to me.
The waiter took my key
and said “Bon appetit”.
The TV wasn’t working and so,
the window showed Montevideo
And it was quite a show –
a high-action movie in stereo!
Now when I
recall my tour of Uruguay,
I have to confess it – it’s not the best trip for one to try;
I’d much rather go to … Finland,
or some place I can see,
Instead of the hell
of a smelly hotel
Locked in room number 613,
Honest! My holiday: it really was the pits!
Full of war, assassins and bandits
And no Brits
And the food gave me some terrible … stomach problems,
Honest! The rebels smelt me through the corridors,
Then they made me leader of their cause
(Yes they did)
And they wanted me to reconstruct their laws.
Now without intent
I’m the President;
People think I’m great:
I’m the Head of State;
Just a passer-by
who is now the guy
Who must rule the land of Uruguay!
I don’t like it here
in my new career:
My phrase-book’s wrong,
I don’t belong
and I’m so busy