With a face like a crab's bus ticketAnd skin like a llama's door matHe was aways gonna struggleNature had seen to thatHe dreamt of those old-fashioned moviesWhere Bogart gets the dameBut a lorry load of LorreIs still the score of painAnd he singsI may be uglyBut I've got the bottle-openerHe may be fat but he's got the cork-screwAnd in the party party politics of this ugly fameThere is no orderly queueWith a chin like a tramps juke-boxAnd eyes like a rhino's ash-trayIt was always going to be pantomimeThat made him sing and dance anywayWhen you feel like LondonAnd you look like hullYou think Travolta pulled Newton-JohnWho did John Hurt pull?And they compliment the complimentAnd it's driving you insaneIt's like talking to a helicopterWhen you know that you're a planeBreath like a mountains goat's satchelNose like a pool of sickBut you always leave your flies ahoy'Cause the world wants to suck your dickLet it suck!And he singsI may be uglyBut I've got the bottle-openerHe may be fat but he's got the cork-screwAnd in the party party politics of this ugly fameThere is no orderly queue