C**t 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