From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar, 
When the dawn begins to crack. 
It's all part of my autumn almanac. 
Breeze blows leaves over, mostly coloured yellow, 
So I sweep them in my sack. 
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. 

Friday evenings, people get together, 
Hiding from the weather. 
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns  [bad word] for lack of sun, 
Because the summer's all gone. 

La-la-la-la... 
Oh, my poor rheumatic back 
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac. 
La-la-la-la... 
Oh, my autumn almanac 
Yes, yes, yes, it's 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 I'm never gonna leave it, 
And I'm always gonna stay here 
If I live to be ninety-nine, 
'Cause all the people I meet 
Seem [bad word] from my street 
And I can't get away, 
Because it's calling me, [bad word] on home) 
Hear it calling me, [bad word] on home) 

La-la-la-la... 
Oh, my autumn Armagnac 
Yes, yes, yes, it's 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!