If you find life a race, you just can't stand the
Come with me to the West Country - the perfect hiding
Pack your bags, and make your way to Somerset, and
I will lay
Ten to one you'll wanna stay down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
There's not a pub, there ain't a shop, you never see
a traffic cop
Drink up, and no-one says "stop", down in
where the cider's strong, the days, forty-eight hours
They've got frogs as big as dogs, that harmonise in
The pheasants all take part in shoots, the big barn
owls don't give two hoots,
All the fleas wear hobnail boots, down in Nempnett
Now they don't care for house or car, as long as they've
a cider jar
They've never heard of Ringo Starr, down in Nempnett
You never hear of rain or snow, no hail or sleet,
or rough winds blow
You can hear the grasses grow, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
Rabbits there as big as sows, the hens there look
the size of cows
All the pigs do Irish jigs, and pigeons pull the ploughs
So leave me there, let me grow fat, and live and laugh,
and after that
Bury me in a cider vat, down in Nempnett Thrubwell.
Sleepy Nempnett Thrubwell, dear old Somerset.