Lyrics
You cunt make it up
Select deep roads channeled, iced gems but code
What d'you buy a ticket for? You twat
You tried to make a point out of what? You sack
I saw your fucking shit singer
Tryna look like he was studying the bands dinner
Wannabes never change, it's the wannabe show
And you always wannabe the same posy shit
And leather jacket, motorbikes from the '50s
You live in Carlton, you twat
You're not snake, fucking Plissken
Circus band, ran by circus man
Ran by, no understanding of what it means to write these tunes
On the highway of fucking artistry
Ya shit, ya look like rocket from the crypt
Meets an old codger with one leg, sat in his prefab
Hating men, hating the state that sent the poor cunt to war, mate
You're him, you're a fucking bleak little worm
Tryna suck the juice out of a tuna tins
You cunt make it up
More green chops, curdle the gravy
Get ya plate in order
No locker, no Davy
Pint and a grunt, we won't win with a pint and a grunt
You just gotta look at the horse-faced cunt
Am I bring unintelligent? I don't care
Its a war, you bastards, slash and despair
Flush 'em out there, ground the family
The servants scream in delight
Tyre, tyre, your wheels on fire
I'm gonna put a wrestling mask on and stand in front of a mixer
And start hitting it with a ding-dong
Resort to gimmick, write for the-
And live on me own in a knackered cottage in Limerick
Kate Bush did it, she's great
Music for people with a bit of extra money, mate
I'm fighting off comedy mods, Les Dawson sods
You cunt make it up
More green chops, curdle the gravy
Get ya plate in order
No locker, no Davy
You cunt make it up
More green chops, curdle the gravy
Get ya plate in order
No locker, no Davy
You cunt make it up
You cunt make it up
You cunt make it up