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, k**ing 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