Sing up tourists, sing

There's a great crowd of tourists and they're coming down the street
Pleased as punch with brand new Doctor Marten's on their feet
Past stalls with leather jackets, old bric-a-brac
Indian sunglasses or a Chinese bobble hat

Tramps stare in the window of the local butcher's shop
Like a pack of wild dogs they'd run off with the lot
In Primrose Hill, an angry man his hair standing on end
Shouts and rants in the ear of his imaginary friend

In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground
In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down
In Camden Town
In Camden Town you can do anything you want to

A drunken busker hits the pavement, sending hot-dogs in the air
Towards a broken down bus full of people going nowhere
A string of Irish pubs as far as you can see
Greek, Indian, Chinese or would you like a cup of tea?

There's tapas, fracas, alcohol, tobaccos
Bongs, bongo bingo, Portuguese maracas
There's reggae in the jeggae, music everywhere
Every kind of song and dance, madness in the air

In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground
In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down
In Camden Town

The tourists sing
Ooooh, they sing
Ooooh, sing up
Ooooh

And what's my name in invisible game?

The two fat Americans interrupt their stay
They put down their bags, they were clamped and towed away
There's Turksh cakes, designer fakes, fathers dressed as nuns
Every kind of music here, the night has just begun

In Camden Town I'll meet you by the underground
In Camden Town we'll walk there as the sun goes down
In Camden Town
In Camden Town you can do anything you want to do

In Camden Town
In Camden Town
In Camden Town
In Camden Town