Delilah the dancer from Soho
Was making her way down the lane
Simpson from Harrow
Had fruit on his barrow
He sold it for love and for gain

Simpson said, "Hello, young woman"
"My Pippins are lovely today"
"Don't be suspicious"
"Of Golden Delicious"
"Whatever your granny might say"

There only apples, red and green
Apples, lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off me barrw, me old cock sparrow
Apples, red and green

Delilah the dancer from Soho
Took ages to make up her mind
Simpson said, "Madam,"
"You'd know if you'd had 'em"
"That these are the very best kind"

"This is the pick of the orchard"
"Forgive me a figure of speech"
"But apples like these here"
"Just don't grow on trees, dear"
"And this one is really a peach"

There only apples, red and green
Apples, lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off my barrow my old cock sparrow
Apples, red and green

Simpson picked out a green apple
He polished it up on his sleeve
He said, "Do me a favour"
"And savour the flavour"
"Of what you're about to receive"

Delilah the dancer from Soho
Accepted his gift with a smile
She said, "It looks like a good 'un"
"It'll do for my pudden"
"I'll get round to it after a while"

There only apples, red and green
Apples, lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off my barrow, my old cock sparrow
Apples, red and green

(Duet with Frances Ruffelle)

I'm here to find out what makes you tick
I'm here to discover the secret you
I intend to reveal you're crooked and sick
And I don't give a damn if none of it's true

'Cos I'm Byline Browne from the national press
And that is how I earn my wages
I bring exposure and distress
As I spread your guts across the centre pages

I'm here to solicit your innermost thoughts
I'm fuelled by jealousy, venom and drink
I poke in your dustbins and I lurk round the courts
I puke up your portrait in bright yellow ink

'Cos I'm Byline Browne of the popular press
The man who bought you babies for sale
I'll blackmail your neighbour and look up your dress
But come what may I'll tell my tale

I cover each item as issues arise
With a skein of fabric of tissue of lies
I'll fuck up your family, your future and friends
And I'll see you in hell before my story ends

I'm a reporter with senses and hunches
Somebody's daughter's turned into a junkie
I'm on a reporter's expenses and lunches
And a whiskey and water and I don't give a monkey's

I want a three piece suit in black worsted
With a three button jacket and a notch lapel
With a boxy back, French shoulder
And a zig-zag raised seam that you do so well
Eighteen inch bottom trouser with a two inch cuff
No taper, no flare, just parallel

Nine hole air-wears, fisherman's warms
Red long-johns, chill-proof vest of the snuggest fit
Second-hand Turnbull and Asser sea-island cotton shirt
With no collar attached to it
Black Burberry trenchcoat, white silk scarf
No groins or kettle, that should complete my kit

And then I want to live in a conversation area

(Duet with Frances Ruffelle)

(Sung by Frances Ruffelle)

Looking for Harry
Looking for Harry
Looking for Harry
Looking for Harry
Looking for Harry
Have you seen him around?

The minute I find him
I'm going to unwind him
It's time to remind him
Not to put me behind him
Looking for Harry
Perhaps he's gone underground

Loving him is going to be
Beautiful, beautiful
All night long
Beautiful, beautiful
All night long

Checking for Charlie
Checking for Charlie
Checking for Charlie
Checking for Charlie
Checking for Charlie
Oh, wherever's he been?

Been trying to bell him
In order to tell him
The minute I smell him
I'm going to unshell him
Checking for Charlie
Since he's been off the scene

Loving him is going to be
Beautiful, beautiful
All night long
Loving him is going to be
Beautiful, beautiful
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long
All night long

Our Father,
Who art in Hendon
Harrow Road be thy name
Thy Kingston come
Thy Wimbledon
In Erith as it is in Hendon.
Give us this day our Berkhamsted
And forgive us our Westminsters
As we forgive those who Westminster against us.
Lead us not into Temple Station
But deliver us from Ealing,
For thine is the Kingston
The Purley and the Crawley,
For Iver and Iver
Crouch End

(Sung by Wreckless Eric)

People think it's easy being a crook
But I got done for everything I took
There's people who could keep you out of schtuck
But you've had it if you don't know where to look

People think it's easy being a thief
But all my major tickles came to grief
The only way your talent is revealed
Is working with the top men in their field

It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people

People think you've only got to ask
Turn up with your crowbar and your mask
"Good morning, I'm a burglar. What's the haps?"
Well, you've had it if you haven't met the chaps

It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people

It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people

It's hard to find the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people
It's hard to find, the right people

All those who say okay, say okay, okay
All those who say okay, say okay, exactly
All those who say okay, say okay, okay
All those who say okay, say okay, exactly

(gibberish)
Oh, well done!

Philosophy? Horrible thought

Steady on!

I resemble that remark!

(gibberish)
That is it, n'est-ce pas? A-ha
n'est-ce pas? A-ha
(gibberish)
in my trouser
(gibberish)
Stop!

Little tests and odd requests
Who loves, who loves, who the best?
Little tasks, no questions asked
The traitor is at last unmasked

Little ploys, search and destroy
Who brings, who brings, who more joy?
Little snipes and frequent gripes
Taken in by all the hype

We're riding the outskirts of fantasy
We're riding, we're riding, we ride
We're hiding our loss of identity
We're keeping our secrets inside

Little tricks with walking sticks
Who gives, who gives, who more kicks?
Little smiles and wily wiles
Got your name down on our files

We're riding the outskirts of fantasy
We're riding, we're riding, we ride
We're hiding our loss of identity
We're keeping our secrets inside

I have done this and that
I have been here and there
I have tasted the fruit of the coco de mer
I've devoted myself to a life without care
And when all's said and done,
I've done more than my share

We're riding the outskirts of fantasy
We're riding, we're riding, we ride
We're hiding our loss of identity
We're keeping our secrets inside

Little games we name no names
Who lost, who lost, who more aims?
Little snares caught unawares
The cupboard underneath the stairs

We're riding the outskirts of fantasy
We're riding, we're riding, we ride
We're hiding our loss of identity
We're keeping our secrets inside