Friday, June 09, 2006
What kind of child am I?
You’re playing silly beggars with you’re lies and deceitful spies.
Press down upon my door step, stand on my door mat
Tell me that in no way are you going to pay
So get out of my flat, look
Get out of my flat, a matter of fact
The trouble with your sort is they keep coming back.
They keep coming back your sort,
They keep coming back,
Get out of my flat.
Since when you came to town I’ve been drowning with dept
Not two pennies have been met and every day having to drive you and your pesky mother and you’re flipping brother down to the dept.
With a ticket for my trouble and the road charging double and the doctor saying there is no green light and no way for me out of this restricting bubble.
And there’s nothing for me with not two pennies to rub together, that’s what I say. And you better bloody believe it because it is my car, my electrocution table and administration cabinet all together chattering about all my behavioural records.
Don’t touch those recs, give em ere unless you want to be electric-cuted.
Because they won’t understand, because they shine a light on my hidden secrets and they just won’t understand.
Well you might let them finger through my papers and convict me with the fine blessing of the magistrate, but let me tell you, you can put me in bands of metal and close the clasp shut, see if I care.
The trouble with my sort is I keep coming back.
They keep coming back, my sort,
They keep coming back.
Don't step over that mat
and get out of my flat!