The bastards, what are they playing at?

Don't like the music, don't like the words

Don't like the sentiments

Well keep it for the birds and bees, boys, bastards

Yes that's right, I stepped out of line

What do you want? What do you want?

As long as I play it moderate, that's fine

Fuck off runt, fuck off runt

Pick your nose with your ball pen, put your snot in Sounds

Back to your play pen with your street cred minds

You whimper and whine from the pages of the press

Ridicule and criticise those who want to change this mess

There's people our there who are trying to live

People who care, now, what do you give?

So many parasites living off our sweat

So many fuckers in for what they can get

Punk ain't about your standards and your rules

It ain't another product for the suckers and the fools

Your sit behind your typewriters shovelling shit

Rotting in the decadence of your crap lined pit

Waiting for the action, so you can grab a part

But it stinks so bad [where you come from]

Who's going to smell your fart?



"CAN YOU PUT ME ON THE GUESTLIST?

IS THERE ANY FREEBIE DRINK?

I CAN'T WRITE UNLESS I FEEL WELL PISSED"

Piss off, you fucking stink