Now if I were a tenor, I’d carry the tune, and I’d flirt with the thin boy beside me.
And the altos would tell me I’m as queer as a loon, but I don’t care if those tarts deride me!
Then at concerts I’d shine as I got in the swing: the crowds would go mad as I started to sing,
And the women would swoon and their hearts would go ping, but I’d rather the men paid attention…

But a bass sings low and profoundly,
Where the tenor must wish he could be,
And his voice is so deep, it can put bricks to sleep.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.

And how well I imagine the life of a sop, as I’d twitter and squeak and read Cosmo.
And how in that rarified air at the top, I could have any man in the disco.
Many sops are brunetty; they’ve dyed their hair well. They colour it chestnut and drown it with gel.
But they’re blonde to the brainstem, you can bloody well tell! The attempt’s nearly always a failure.

But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And his thoughts are as deep as the sea.
But a sop’s not as smart as a good shopping cart.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.

And if I were an alto, my life would be odd, as the oestrogen bubbled inside me.
And I’d watch the old basses, all hoping to God for a chance to corrupt and misguide me.
And the altos sing coyly: the crowd howls for more. Their talents are striking; they all know the score.
The sopranos all ask, “What are we singing for?” And I ask myself the same question…

But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And we do like an alto or three.
For as beer follows beer, more taboos disappear.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.

Sing me the bass line, sing me the bass line.
Who’ll come on down to the bass line with me?
And our notes are absurd, and we show up on a seismograph.
Who’ll come on down to the bass line with me?