The Isle of Man is one very grim place.
I came here to catch a T.T. race.
And now that I have I'll be so glad to leave.
Catching a plane is my only reprieve.

It's grey and it's nasty. It's squalid as hell.
It's cold and it's dreary. It's a rip-off as well.
It's charmless and graceless. It's really the pits.
So if you come for the T.T. you'll soon call it quits.

It reminds me of Barnsley but with a filthy grey moat.
Who'd want to eat fish trawled by their local boats?
They're hung up on fairies. I know that sounds tragic.
But in the Isle of Man they could do with some magic.

As for chicks? I won't go there and you wouldn't too.
Manx meat gives you some idea and I'm not talking stew.
Their down-trodden fellas look pasty and harried.
In-breeding I guess but who'd want to get married?

So when you see the ♥ in the I ♥ M.
Don't get taken in, that's just the advertising man.
He can't think of anything else to say.
But if he loves himself does that make him gay?

I read it as "I love many things but definitely not here".
It's a shit-hole with no seat. It's a glass without beer.
It's deprivation. It's soulless. It's manxy. It's tat.
When I fly away tomorrow I'm never coming back.