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Carry me hooting and howling |
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to the river to wash off my hands |
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of the hot blood, the sweat and the sand |
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Any rival who goes for our girls will be left thumb sucking in terror |
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and bereft of all coffin bearers |
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A crude art, a bovver boot ballet - equally elegant and ugly |
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I was as thrilled as I was appalled, courting him in fisticuffing waltz. |
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Now I'm not saying the lads always deserve a braying. |
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And I'm not saying the girls are worth the fines I'm paying. |
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We're just brutes bored in our bovver boots. |
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We're just brutes clowning 'round in cahoots. |
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We're just brutes looking for shops to loot. |
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We're just brutes hoping to have a hoot |
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Hooting, hooting and howling |
