| My my, what a guy in long line |
| Of high fly, blow dry, simple Simon, magic eye |
| Oh no, he’s gonna buy a Van Gogh |
| He doesn’t really like it |
| But put your head in your hands |
| Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah |
| We are the also rans |
| We’ll be your moral guidance |
| Distance, distance, distance, distance |
| Oh no, he’s a tramp in an old band |
| Walk though, sleep rough, killing with his big hands |
| He’s happy in his own kind of way |
| But he doesn’t really know it |
| But put your head in your hands |
| Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah |
| We are the also rans |
| We’ll be your moral guidance |
| Distance, distance, distance, distance |
| Leave, leave, with your fears and your pet hates |
| Down south, big mouth, evening with your work mates |
| At nine we’re gonna see The Young Knives |
| Nobody really likes them |
| But put your head in the sand |
| Dah, dah, d-d-dah, dah |
| We are the also rans |
| We’ll be your guardian angels |
| Distance |