Plague Cafe
This place has a dead waitress and one million flies
Orange table tops that damage my eyes
A road outside that clatters with limosines
People that go out, people that come in

The owner of this place has more than one stomach
Trotters for fingers, and braces down his wet back
When at the till he's an ex-ack-ack gunner
With pen at each ear and a butchery calendar

  Plague Cafe - you're too mat- black to reflect me
  Plague Cafe - I'm too mummified to leave
  Plague Cafe - you're drying out my brain
  Plague Cafe - I'm going down your drain

Oh, cafe of cattle cafe of foot and mouth disease
An old lady died here last night in mid sneeze
You make me perspire, I lust for escape
Like a Pharoah visiting his burial place

Your ovens have burned up all my oxygen
My mouth's blue from sucking at this vacuum
Your orange table tops barely keep me awake
Oh, cafe of dismay, how long does it take...