ALBUM: Lyrics



One candle….shining…no, not so bright….

Now, where shall I put it? Here? Ah!

Hello ! Come in, come in, come in….

Now it wasn’t difficult to find was it?

No, come in here….this way…

Let me take your coat.

Mmm – that’s beautiful! What is it? No, no…don’t – don’t tell me…

Let me guess. It’s…er…mmm, yes, I thought it was…

What? Well come closer and I’ll whisper it to you.

It’s…yes? Well of course – I’m always right!

Do go in…

No, the lights haven’t fused – it’s candlelight.

Now what would you like to drink – I’ve started on Champagne.

That is a beautiful dress! Do sit down…

No, not over there – it’s too far away…

Come over here it’s closer to everything.

It’s lovely to see you – here’s to a pleasant evening…

And a few surprises.

There we are. Are you comfortable?

Now where shall we begin?

Words and Music by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd


 Well, this begins with a Glen. It begins with a season,

Which, for want of a better reason,

We’ll call…April.

It begins with a forest, where the woodchucks woo,

And leaves wax green,

And the vines entwine moonlight lovers.

Try to see it – not with your eyes, because they’re wise,

But with your ears – the cool, green breathing of the leaves.

And hear it with the inside of your hand,

The soundless sound of shadows.

Celebrate Sensation!

Recall it’s secret place –

You’ve been there…you remember?

That special place?

Where someone held your hand?

And love was sweeter than the berries or the honey,

Or the stinging taste of mint…

It is April – before a rainfall.

Perfect time to be in love…

Words and Music by Schmidt and Jones – Warner Chapell Music Ltd


 Rape – rape – rape, rape, rape!

Rape – rape, rape, rape!

It’s utterly amazing how many different kinds of rape there are!

There’s Italian Rape…

Uno, due, tres, quatro, cinque, quante Lira.

Look into my eye-a-balls, you will see the fire!

How much Lira have you gott-a ? Only a quarter?

Oh Madonna, you didn’t oughta – for that I’ll have your daughter !

(breaks into mock Japanese…)

Japanese Rape, of course!

American Rape is full of hate and we’re told, practically every minute of the hour.

And the way we’re going we’ll never be late,

Except for that date, with impatient Black Power!

(breaks into mock Chinese…)

Beginnings of Chinese Rape – endless!

One does need time, as any Englishman will explain,

If only to apologise for the agonising convenience caused

To Mother Nature’s forbidden walls!

In France of course, where fun is greedy,

The women are a little more seedy.

And rape is hardly ever necessary.

So even if the Franc is down, la plume de ma tante is always up and around!

In Germany it isn’t always remembered,

What with Liszt, Wagner and Tannhauser,

The Rape is synonymous with whips, bunkers and Mauser.

Which makes it all comparatively kinky –

With gas thrown in to get rid of the stinky!

In Russia it’s far too cold for anything so bold!

And being notoriously political (if a trifle hypocritical)

Rape becomes piratical,

And Czechoslovakia far more suitable!

Which makes the whole thing rather nasty, tasteless and hasty.

But as Jason King would say, it depends so much on what you…fancy!

Words and Music by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd



 Jenny kissed me when we met, jumping from the chair she sat in.

Time, you thief who loved to get sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I’m weary. Say I’m sad. Say that health and wealth have missed me.

Say I’m growing old, but add – Jenny kissed me…

Words and Music by Hunt and Smith –EMI Harmonies Ltd



 Like a child who cries for her mummy,

Like the man who loses his money,

Like the clown who cries though he’s funny,

And the way I cry over you.

Like a beggar who roams over back streets,

And the shadow that follows behind.

If the faith of love that he’s after,

Like the tears that fall from his eyes,

Is the way I cry over you.

That’s how I want you.

And how I need you.

I want you near me, again.

Like the leaves that cry in the Autumn,

Like the sky that clouds in a gloom.

Like a river that flows without ending,

And the tears that fall from my eyes

Like the rain that comes without warning,

And the breeze that a blind man can feel.

And the sun that shadows a rainbow.

Like an empty dream in your mind.

It’s the way I cry, over you.

Words and Music by F. & H. Valverde – EMI Harmonies Ltd



 He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

One against whom there was no official complaint,

And all the reports on his conduct agree

That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,

For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired

He worked in a factory and never got fired,

But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,

For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

And our Social Psychology workers found

That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,

And his Health-card shows that he was once in hospital but left it cured.

Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

A phonograph, a radio, a car and a Frigidaire.

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

That he held the proper opinions for the time of year ;

When there was peace, he was for peace ; when there was war, he went.

He was married and added five children to the population,

Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation,

And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.

Was he free ? Was he happy ? The question is absurd;

Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Written by W.H. Auden – Curtis Brown Ltd



 See, but I do not see.

It’s not your hair, your eyes, your lips, your face that gleams,

When I – tell those lies. It’s then,

When I – touch you.

Maybe you want to care, but once bitten, twice shy,

And you seem nowhere there, and I,

Just another lie. It’s then,

When I – touch you.

Seems you’re far away, your body’s breath on me.

Seems you want to stay, and a part longs to.

It’s then, when I,

When I,

When I,

When I – touch you.

Words and Music by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd



(Spoken) Oh, have you seen this ? Now where is it ? Oh yes, here it is. Yes, this letter was printed in the Sunday Times, London, 28th September 1969. Shall I read it to you ? It was headed, “Skinheads In Skirts” –

“We are two girls who according to your article are skinheads. We don’t think you know much about us. Round our way the boys wear big boots, like you say, called Bovver Boots. We’re called Bovvers, Mods, Peanuts and a variety of other names. The boys have crops, like the boys in your picture, not crew cuts, and braces are worn with their Levis. We do work hard, unlike the hippies – I say we because we girls are Mods, or Bovvers, or Peanuts as well as the boys. If you want to see real, clean, decent ones, come to Bookham. We don’t like long hair, hippies, flowery clothes and anything which attracts attention. As for us girls, we wear skirts that are long by today’s standards. M of us have crops – hair that is short on top with long back and sideboards. We wear maxi cardies, stretch lace blouses and we don’t wear make-up anymore. We’re just out for a good time. “

Miss Jane Skinner and Chris Webb, aged 15, Great Bookham

Song –

Billy was a queer, pilly, sexy Hippy,

He wore gear – frilly, hairy, zippy.

Mohair in the winter, less hair in the summer.

His mac was black, scarf immaculate –

Tied loosely (knots interfered with promiscuity!)

Beads that went all the way to eternity,

Specially on his trips around three-thirty

Did Billy the queer, pilly, sexy Hippy.

Then one night he went a-troll with Dilly,

To spend a penny and met a Skinhead – Kenny.

Kenny was one-too-many,

A Skinhead who hated plenty.

But Billy loved his Puritanical gear,

His boots, his braces, his hair,

And something else which was quite rare.

Kenny was a dour, pimply, silly drear,

Whose only joy was knocking down a queer.

So the moment his beetle-esque brows rose in frenzy,

Billy gulped, zipped up, and looked less trendy.

The crew-cut Ken and all his men stomped out in Roundhead style,

Their boots as small as size being ten, they had to walk in Indian file.

Billy ran up the stairs to the street

And suddenly found he was surrounded by feet.

What was night became the day that lovely Ken didn’t want to play,

Instead he looked like some bad trip, not at all like any hopeful kip.

Which made poor Billy realise that Peanuts just don’t vitalise!

Thud! Thud! Sock!

Thud, thud, thud again went the magnificent Ken.

Fling into face – grab hair quickly,

Snip, snip, snip! Till all was prickly – flat –

(Ken : “Short! Just like mine!)

What? Oh, Poor Billy, no more hat, size nine!

But stop! Halt! Go back! Re-run reel…

What’s that between Ken’s clammy hand?

A load of hay? Familiar material?

(Ken: A wig!)

Detached from yellow band?

(Ken : No, no – I must be canned!)

Underneath this golden mass is a head as bare…

(Ken: As bare as my arse!)

And what’s this now? Barer still,

Peeping out – and another thrill!

From torn blouse and buttons spill…

(Ken: A pair! A pair o’ Skin’eads! Cor – what a pair! She’s a bird – she’s a bird! A bird!)

So Ken became a less dour, silly, pimply drear,

Coz Billy certainly was no pilly, sexy Hippy….queer?

Written by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd



That moment I –

Touched your lingering gaze,

And felt your eyes regret their moment’s dew.

And why they shouldn’t be suspect of my intent. (It was hardly new.)

So many times –

Before I tried to run,

Of all you’d spent, every single day.

You’ll find it hard to remember to forget.

(It wasn’t you.)

Most things I said I was made to do,

Make love to all who paid the price, like you.

To wine and dine and next in line,

A rope, with a view.

Who’s lonely now, there’s those endless waits,

Roaming, with one motivation.

A horse, a horse – your kingdom for a horse,

To ride – your woman’s invitation.

You’ll find it hard to remember…

To forget.

Words and Music by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – Sticks Music



Jenny kissed me…

Jenny KISSED me…

And it was…


Words and Music by Hunt and Smith – EMI Harmonies Ltd



Dance – to Widdecombe Fair we go.

Get on with the show…

And watch the spinning wheel turn round,

It don’t make a sound…

 Words and Music by Vic Smith – Sticks Music Ltd


Neville Thumbcatch worked daily at the mill,

And at weekends, his allotment by the hill.

He sank his snout in Mother Nature’s bower,

Growing some radishes and the occasional flower.

Poor Mrs Thumbcatch meanwhile waited back at home,

Her only comfort was an alabaster gnome.

Her husband lost sight of the wood amongst the trees,

He was a man of Nature who forgot his birds and bees.


Neville Thumbcatch you!

Neville Thumbcatch you!

Best things in life are free so just forget the cost.

Enjoy your pride and you won’t miss just what you’ve lost!

So Mrs Thumbcatch left as soon as she was able.

She took the dog, the cat and the budgie they called Mabel.

She said at last her future now was free from doubts,

With George the milkman she’d have kids, not Brussels sprouts!

Now his allotment is a place that’s never seen,

Because he has to tidy up and cook, and clean.

Sometimes sadness comes and then it’s gone,

As the Neville Thumbcatch show goes on…

And on…and on…and on…and on…and on…and on…and on…

(Repeat chorus)

 Written by Smith and Bain – Sticks Music



 I think I’ve been waiting too long,

I just don’t know why.

My life has been spent behind doors –

On platforms, exits and walls.

And now I’m alone in this world,

It seems I’ve been waiting in vain,

For someone to come to the door,

Once again.


Flight Number Ten from….where?

She would take the last flight.

I wonder who they’re waiting for?

Can’t be flight number ten.

I wish that boy would stop picking his nose!

Why is waiting so…bare?

Wait a minute – what’s that?

What’s the announcer saying?

Flight….404. No, that’s not it…

I think I’ve missed her often before,

I just don’t know why.

My hopes and my doubts hurting more,

My life wasted and gone.

When that train, boat or that plane,

Refused to arrive in the rain,

To alter my life all the same,

Once again.


I know I’ve been waiting too long.

I just can’t remember why.

My life has been spent behind doors,

On platforms, exits and walls.

And now I’m alone in this world,

It seems I’ve been waiting in vain,

For someone to come to the door…

Never, ever again.

Flight Number Ten

 Words and Music by Hubert Valverde and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd



 Walk into my eyes and watch me smile,

But pay no heed of lips that do beguile.

Wander through my mind and lie upon,

And lie upon my heart


Pay no attention to this part – it is the end.

It IS the end…

Maybe I can see you leaving now,

For we, we must depart.

Words and Music by Vic Smith and PETER WYNGARDE – EMI Harmonies Ltd/BMG Music Publishing Ltd




You may think I have not those intimate, improbable thoughts that shade your eyes,

Softer than your own soft awakening.

For on that moment when you felt ensnared with music more shared than words,

And failed to touch that shy smile upon your lips,

More stinging than the taste of mint –

Looked deeper than your wildest dreams upon disillusion of your heart.

Or sighed more sadly than your own wise eyes.

If you have, then think not I own my shame –

It is yours, my lady.

We will share them and those who dare to say my singing was meant to hurt –

In spite of smiles more sly than kind.

We will do all this with words,

That shall forfeit thoughts like fear, hate, must I insist and how…

Why is April more than less a month of love

And all the rest a restless wander of my soul?

Words and Music by Vic Smith and PETER WYNGARDE – Sticks Music/BMG Music Publishing Ltd 

Click here for more information on the album

The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society:



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