Murder in the Village

Murder in the village, Sir Roger’s driving in
Suspicion points the finger at irascible Miss Pym
But she’s a red herring, and so is Mr Pool
The handyman and janitor who creeps around the school
There is no bigger picture, no close analysis
The English have no theory, they just celebrate what is
There is no corpse in evidence, there’s just a sneaking cringe
And what it is is what it is and that will never change

Murder in the village, the investigation plods along
Is anything more English than dying on the lawn?
Mustn’t grumble, I suppose, we’d better carry on
Murdering and murdering ’til everybody’s gone

Murder in the village, everyone’s to blame
The victim and the murderer are one and the same
The villagers are done to death, the vicar’s in the ditch
But lo, here comes Sir Roger now, with slow Inspector Inch
Sir Roger blames the gypsies encamped down in the trench
Inspector Inch says at a pinch it could have been the French
Unless it was the malcontents who kill people with bombs
With their weird intense convictions and their cod-religious songs

Murder in the village, conclusions crowd anew
Is anything more English than a killing with a view?
Mustn’t grumble, I suppose, we ought to carry on
Murdering and murdering ’til everybody’s gone

Sunset on the empire, sunset on the state
Reality is stretching now, it must be getting late
If the killer strikes tomorrow he is sure to strike tonight
Will the last living Englishman please turn off the light?
The vicar’s at the slaughterhouse, Inch is watching Morse
The gypsies are assembled in the dell beyond the golf course
But Sir Roger, as he falls asleep, is having an idea
Of course, he thinks, I’ve been a fool, I see what’s happened here!

Everybody did it, no cause for alarm
Is anything more English than the cricket of self-harm?
For everybody’s sake we cannot carry on
Murdering and murdering ’til everybody’s gone