歌词
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that is drinking near the shop That it ain’t the foreigners, and it ain’t the ****in Cov, But he don’t care
I take up the right, left view and the road in front too And make up my mind slide past you
There’s always animals singing on everyday
No cars to drown the noise of this yea
Just queues for the clinic and 6ft conversation
I don’t wanna talk innit. I don’t wanna talk to you, you cunt, you boring ****ing cunt.
Looked grim then all of a sudden I didn’t give a shit about it and just became in, got in with it, din’t touch anything just stared into a cold month with no people near it. I got stunned but the ivy grew back nice on my back wall under that sun like who was it. Necking soft drinks in a Sydney bar was just really good wan’t it. Planes flying dead low, so warm and people taking shit on Mandy, not me tho.
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that is drinking near the shop That it ain’t the foreigners, and it ain’t the ****in Cov, But he don’t care
Why’s this cunt got police protection
He wasn’t even running in the last election
I bet his partner at night sez things like
“It’s all for the good of your ideas”
Putting milk in the bowls of his children’s inevitable tears every morning. Insane. Watch em get depressed under the lock down stress. Little slap headed cunt, get Brexit punched, let’s get Brexit ****ed by an horses penis until its misery splits. Ugly rich white men get shagged by it, squeak, north London suburbs carry the pain in the bricks, religion and wheat, MP’s popping up like newly planted council trees, squeak squeak.
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that is drinking near the shop That it ain’t the foreigners, and it ain’t the ****in Cov, But he don’t care
Benches with RIP badges under swaying trees that kiss the energy damaged, people underneath, same old same old, dug outs and old walks, footings, oh ****, story’s about the origins of buildings, slight hills, panic behind the tills, rumble rumble, get the hot weather and some ****er got a beer or two, old firm hands unemployed loitering, you just get ****ing annoyed, like what, drop kick ya silly bastards in my dreams that’s about ya lot, mumble mumble, dragging out slight hills more panic behind the tills.
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that is drinking near the shop That it ain’t the foreigners, and it ain’t the ****in Cov, But he don’t care
Panic behind the tills
Panic behind the tills
Panic behind the tills
Panic behind the ti
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