Coneworld

When the Martians refer to earth they call it Coneworld
No longer blue and green, we are now orange and white
And they think we live in little metal boxes with wheels on
In long lines three abreast. Surely it's not right

Now you know that really this is called the motorway
Numbers distinguish one route from another, they say
But whether you travel on the 1 or 25, the result is
That you will not move much anyway

Trumpet

For the roadworks make your vehicle stationary -
It is bad enough for the 9 to 5ers at tea
But spare just a thought for those who entertain you
On Saturday nights, when they close the M1 completely



Credits
Writer(s): Avelia Jacqueline Moisey
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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