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Well, the sun goes down on London town |
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But it never sets on Oxford Street |
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Those well spoken young men |
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And their bouncers are trying to create a well dressed elite |
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And all on private medicine, tut tut |
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Once inside join the rising tide |
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Of people who are so proud to get in |
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Who think their face is their fortune |
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But under their skin their ugly as sin |
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Didn't I meet you down at the clinic? |
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And lots of boys with lots of poison |
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There right down to their hips |
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There're lots of pretty girls with suntans |
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And cold sores on their lips |
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Is he your boyfriend |
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Or is he just here to hold your coat? |
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Or take it off, take it off, take it off |
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And let's find out |
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Half passed tries with half cast eyes |
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Are sucking in their cheeks until it hurts |
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Lots of twats in funny hats |
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With Karl Marx printed on their shirts |
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Will tell you |
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Revolution is just a state of mind |
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Oh this is Saturday night |
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In the west end, alright |
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And these people are not my kind |
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You can cut the rug with this weeks drug |
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Make 'em all queue up to lick your arse |
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Wear a T-Shirt that says |
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Young, free and single |
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Or a big badge that says |
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I'm here, punk working class |
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The place is full of ear holes |
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Who hang on every word |
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That they speak |
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Who believe what they write |
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About themselves |
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Week after week after week after week |
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I don't know how they get away with it |
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They should be ashamed |
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While if it's all so bloody beautiful |
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Well take it home and have it framed |
