Welcome to the Tumbola of Skoda
Where all you can order is a pint of cola
And even though you've met everyone before
Nobody knows you

The chairs are made of glass and the ceiling's plastic
The floor is lined with cardboard, over in the corner is a blackboard
A menu with such titles as eyeball broth, strychnine trifle,
Don't upset the chef, he's got a rifle

Upstairs are bears in small cages, bored as hell, they've been there ages
They entertain those passing by on the way to the toilets
Balancing balls on their noses, making strange noises and gesturing poses

There's no electricity here, we dine by candle light
Fears of fire during brawls and fights
One wrong move and this whole place will be alight
It's made from sticks and twigs, intertwined, mud, painted blood red
But all that said it makes for a grand night out,
Though the food's rather naff

They operate a hotel on the second floor
You get to it through a big steel door
The rooms are painted black, the lights illuminate grey, 
The little plaque on the bedside cabinet says 'we hope you enjoy your stay'

The bathroom's bleak, smells of bleach, slithering out the sink waste is a fat leach 
Turning the sink tap to rinse it away, the tap squeals as it turns, the water comes out brown
Then clear, then brown again and then clear. Where's the shower curtain gone I wonder?
Maybe someone was murdered here?

Through the window, a view of moor land
An orange sky meets the dark, unlit, outline of a landscape
Foxes howl in the night, yet all else is silent