From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar,
When the dawn begins to crack.
Its all part of my autumn almanac.
Breeze blows leaves of a musty[mustard? ]-coloured yellow,
So I sweep them in my sack.
Yes, yes, yes, its my autumn almanac.

Friday evenings, people get together,
Hiding from the weather.
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns
Cant compensate for lack of sun,
Because the summers all gone.

La-la-la-la...
Oh, my poor rheumatic back
Yes, yes, yes, its my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, its my autumn almanac.

I like my football on a saturday,
Roast beef on sundays, all right.
I go to blackpool for my holidays,
Sit in the open sunlight.

This is my street, and Im never gonna to leave it,
And Im always gonna to stay here
If I live to be ninety-nine,
cause all the people I meet
Seem to come from my street
And I cant get away,
Because its calling me, (come on home)
Hear it calling me, (come on home)

La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn armagnac
Yes, yes, yes, its my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa!
Bop-bop-bopm-bop-bop, whoa!
(etc.)