Cunt Make It Up

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