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Gin home-made, cats un-spayed, life decayingSylvan house, police box at the gatesFriends allowed to stay by the Lord Protector's graceBut they must be out by eightPainted tusks, Portuguese menorahsOne-string harps, some Burmese temple bellsHe used his starry spell, art revolution to foretellIn ditties sung live from hotelsSing us a song, Mr CynthiaRocks rain on the dank rooftop slatesLocal kids just want a chase through the big iron gatesThrough which they alone can escapePhotographs taken some years previousShow him in a delegation still sleekIn Rhodesia and Belize, plaques & handshakes with dignitariesLed by Minister Sir Joseph MeekSing for your board, Mr CynthiaWith this house band so tuneless and lameAs for the last time you're namedNext to this woman you've shamedWith your bafflegab and Wardour Street tradeSongtexteAt the heart of all photos is CynthiaShe's accepting a bouquet or tenA national treasure, that's CynthiaProtectorate Sweetheart, now quoted at lengthHer blossoms of blunt common senseCameras rolled, the show unsold, the Ritz desertedIn their new songs he took no part at allWitchfinder Aspinall pressed one temple to the wallAnd smiled at him, appalled Aus Songtexte Mania