If your conscience fails you we can be your guide

The runaway train will take you for a ride

It's an '88 special with automatic doors

Johnny Guitar, tell 'em where it goes

Down the tracks like a thunderstorm

Past the house where I was born

Guaranteed and bonafide, a genuine white knuckle ride

We've got smackheads, crackheads, pensioners , pimps

Anonymous alcoholics looking for a drink

So put your feet up, enjoy the show

Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill let's go



We've got yardies, steamers, parasitic cops

Bostik boys playing chicken in the box

Jackpot crackpots, Summertown blues

Nineteen nervous wrecking crews

Mad alsations, pit-bull terrorists

hammerheaded loan sharks trying out for Jaws 6

BMX bandits breaking all the windows

You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows



CHORUS

Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill

The driver's dressed in black

He's dead on the dead man's handle

And we ain't coming back



We're going down the tracks and off this page

Past the dole, the Silver Blades

Through the flats to the seventh floor

Along the walkway to your front door

Up the staircase, down the hall

Where Daddy bangs you against the wall

And beats your brains with a tablespoon

Awopbopaloobopalopbamboom!



Calling all cars, calling all cars

Check all the pubs and raid all the bars

Bring in the rapists, the muggers and thieves

Make it safe for the OAP's

House the homeless boys and girls

Save the children, feed the world

Then put your feet up, mind the gap

And take it right back to the track Fruit Bat



CHORUS



We're going down the tracks and on ahead

Where skins and angels fear to tread

Up the chimneys, down the drains

Through the eyes of hurricanes

>From the brothels of Streatham,

to the taking of Peckham

Fun, fun, fun,

Here we come!

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