Camden Town

Sing up tourists, sing There's a great crowd of tourists and they're coming down the street Pleased as punch with brand new Doctor Marten's on their feet Past stalls with leather jackets, old bric-a-brac Indian sunglasses or a Chinese bobble hat Tramps stare in the window of the local butcher's shop Like a pack of wild dogs they'd run off with the lot In Primrose Hill, an angry man his hair standing on end Shouts and rants in the ear of his imaginary friend In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down In Camden Town In Camden Town you can do anything you want to A drunken busker hits the pavement, sending hot-dogs in the air Towards a broken down bus full of people going nowhere A string of Irish pubs as far as you can see Greek, Indian, Chinese or would you like a cup of tea? There's tapas, fracas, alcohol, tobaccos Bongs, bongo bingo, Portuguese maracas There's reggae in the jeggae, music everywhere Every kind of song and dance, madness in the air In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down In Camden Town The tourists sing Oh, they sing Oh, sing up Oh And what's my name in invisible game? The two fat Americans interrupt their stay They put down their bags, they were clamped and towed away There's Turkish cakes, designer fakes, fathers dressed as nuns Every kind of music here, the night has just begun In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down In Camden Town In Camden Town you can do anything you want to do In Camden Town In Camden Town In Camden Town In Camden Town