With a face like a crab's bus ticket
And skin like a llama's door mat
He was always gonna struggle
Nature had seen to that

He dreamt of those old-fashioned movies
Where Bogart gets the dame
But a lorry load of Lorre
Is still the score of pain

And he sings
I may be ugly
But I've got the bottle-opener
He may be fat but he's got the cork-screw
And in the party party politics of this ugly fame
There is no orderly queue

With a chin like a tramp's jukebox
And eyes like a rhino's ash-tray
It was always going to be pantomime
That made him sing and dance anyway

When you feel like London
And you look like Hull
You think Travolta pulled Newton, John
Who did John Hurt pull?

And they compliment the compliment
And it's driving you insane
It's like talking to a helicopter
When you know that you're a plane

Breath like a mountain goat's satchel
Nose like a pool of sick
But you always leave your flies ahoy
'Cause the world wants to suck your dick
Let it suck!

And he sings
I may be ugly
But I've got the bottle-opener
He may be fat but he's got the cork-screw
And in the party party politics of this ugly fame
There is no orderly queue

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): DAVE ROTHERAY, PAUL HEATON