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[Intro - John Cooper Clarke:] |
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Pity the fates of young fellows |
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Too long in bed with no sleep |
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With their complex romantic attachments |
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All look on their sorrows and weep |
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They don't get a moment's reflection |
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There's always a crowd in their eye |
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Pity the plight of young fellows |
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Regard all their worries and cry |
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Their Christian mothers were lazy perhaps |
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Leaving it up to the school |
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Where the moral perspective is hazy perhaps |
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And the climate oppressively cruel |
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Give me one acre of cellos |
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Pitched at some distant regret |
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Pity the fate of young fellows |
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And their anxious attempts to forget |
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[Sketch:] |
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[Speaker 1:] So you're the bad man that killed Kerbie yeah? |
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[Speaker 2:] Yeah |
| [1:] |
And that little girl yeah? |
| [2:] |
I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident |
| [1:] |
Do you know who that girl was though? |
| [2:] [pause] |
Nah |
| [1:] |
That was my fucking sister |
| [3:] |
Chris man, just allow it |
| [1:] |
Don't tell me to fucking allow it, you don't fucking know me |
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[Verse 1 - Plan B:] |
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These are the tears of a thug like murky water |
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Crying tears as clear as mud for his father's daughter |
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His half sister, he felt obliged to support her |
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Since her mum was poor and her dad died even poorer |
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Separated until she was eight years old |
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He knew as soon as he saw her that he adored her |
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So now he's paying for blood with a borer |
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And an automatic weapon; Smith And Wesson |
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That'd split a fucking hole in your chest length |
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He's been looking to corner the perpetrators responsible for a killing |
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Now that he's finally got them where he wants them |
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Blood will start spilling |
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The atmosphere in the air tonight is chilling |
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The blanket of stars above their heads in the sky feels like a ceiling |
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Slowly crushing down on them as the terror starts progressing |
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That leaves the youngest of the two open to his suggestion |
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Only thirteen years old; pubescent adolescent |
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About to learn a very harsh and depressing lesson |
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[Sketch:] |
| [1:] |
Here, stab him up. Do it! |
| [3:] |
Jake bruv, just, come on.. |
| [2:] |
I can't, I can't do that |
| [1:] |
How the fuck do you think we got here? |
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How the fuck do you think I know where you live? |
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He offered to kill you earlier - for me! |
| [2:] |
What |
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What so you set me up?! |
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Fucking talk to me bruv! |
| [1:] |
That's it, get mad! |
| [2:] |
You fucking used me bruv! |
| [3:] |
I didn't tell you to fucking kill her |
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[Verse 2 - Plan B:] |
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These are the tears of a wanna-be thug |
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Crying tears as thick as blood cause his elders set him up |
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To take the fall and now he's stuck with no way of getting out |
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Cause even if there was a way he'd still want to vent this anger out |
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Without a doubt these street are rife with corruption |
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Young minds get corrupted and so easily fucked with |
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Only leads to destruction in the end; false assumptions |
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That people have your back makes you believe they're your friends |
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Although some represent; no one can be trusted |
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One double-O percent cause some thugs will go to lengths |
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To get revenge |
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Even if it means manipulating youths to carry skengs |
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And do the dirty work for them |
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The kind of work for men |
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That route the dark has past |
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Not impressionable young children that never had a chance |
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Growing up in these manors most are doomed from the start |
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Cause the minds of their peers are as ill as their hearts |
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[Sketch:] |
| [1:] |
Get mad |
| [2:] |
You fucking dickhead |
| [1:] |
Do it |
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[stabs him] |
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[Outro - John Cooper Clarke:] |
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Pity the fates of young fellows |
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Too long in bed with no sleep |
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With their complex romantic attachments |
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All look on their sorrows and weep |
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They don't get a moment's reflection |
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There's always a crowd in their eye |
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Pity the plight of young fellows |
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Regard all their worries and cry |
