He got a favour from a fan
She'd been rubbin' on his tan at lunchtime
South of the border she stopped and she held everything
He said "I better fix it - double quick time"
She felt alright when he did the tantric thing.

And he won't step aside if they chop down too many places
Comin' in, like, with a rant "I hear the trees go down"
Forestation of empty spaces
Ah, with the trees, they grow in that ground
Way on down south, way on down south, Congo land.

They chuck out guitar junk, he blows all the chords
Mind, he's strictly with 'em, he doesn't wanna have to try to sing
One day the old ex-star will say "I'm not a fraud"
Then he'll say "Up under the lights, it's not my thing".

And Trudie doesn't mind now he doesn't make a bean
He's got a skin tan job he's doin' at night
He can rub it inch by inch like anything
Slappin' it on, for skin so white
At The Suntans, at The Suntans Of Sting.

And a crowd of young girls, their drooling abounds in the corner
Moist and dressed in their best clean undies with the cut out holes
He gets in a jam about any strumpet, laying tanned
He ain't got that much self control
At The Suntans, yeah, The Suntans, he lays models.

And then the tenth, she steps right up, she's a lycra zone
And says "At last" just as her G-spot sings
"Goodnight - no more time, now go home"
The he looks down fast at his poor thing
He's at The Suntans, he's at The Suntans Of Sting.