"Oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's
"You owe me five farthings" say the Bells of St. Martin's
"When will you pay me?" say the Bells of Old Bailey
"When I grow rich" say the Bells of Shoreditch
"When will that be?" say the Bells of Stepney
"I do not know" say the Great Bells of Bow
"Here comes a Candle to light you to Bed
Here comes a Chopper to Chop off your Head
Chip chop chip chop - the Last Man's Dead."

The bells are always ringing, ding, dong dell

St. Clement's sings me songs of citrus fruit,

St. Martin's talks of tiny bits of loot,

forgotten debts that never ring a bell.

Old Bailey turns the screws - demands a date

and Shoreditch answers with a chiming quip

but Stepney tolls insistence with a whip

and Bow pleads lack of knowledge of a date.

I must get out of London - miss the chop

to somewhere where the dunning bells are spent

such fuss about a quarter of a cent

'twill buy one almost nothing at the shop.

I'll jump a ship tomorrow - let them ring

In Swaziland I will not hear a thing.