I know as I look around
That this is worse than Chickentown
That was fun and games,
But here all I’ve got to blame
Is all my nasty habits
Now I’m stuck in Newton Abbot
This place is as funny as a dead clown,
As useful as a dyslexic on countdown
I think to myself as I slowly rot
On the corner outside Ali’s Kebab Shop
With the fake friends and fag ends
The late trains, the ghastly gaze
Of crack heads and estate agents.
No one knows who’s worse
When the only way out is in a hearse.
Yeah, it’s a plug hole of lost souls
All these die hards on the dole
As the lard drips from kebab tragedies
Their day becomes a horror scene
Of Grolsch and group mentality
With monopoly money, made to lose
Street fight cluedo where no one knows who’s who
And human jenga towers where the poor get pissed and the rich keep the power.
But this is not a board game – it’s real, it’s boring and we’re in pain so surely
As we drink down our insecurities and snort our boring stories
It’s a comedy in the cubicles, chats between the pissing stations.
Life and death and loo roll – Not so great expectations
Dave and Darren fight over Karen, so drunk they don’t realise they’ve smashed a shop front and she’s a mannequin
Diane throws her handbag at Daisy – misses, hits a copper and gets tazered.
It’s nights like this I wish I’d stayed in and been lazy.
As lard drips from kebabs onto a ghost down, a dead street
Every man and every woman keeps to themselves
For fear of being seen as a real human being.
And they crawl back at dawn, the dead
Sat on sticky sofas say: “Same again, next Saturday?
That this is worse than Chickentown
That was fun and games,
But here all I’ve got to blame
Is all my nasty habits
Now I’m stuck in Newton Abbot
This place is as funny as a dead clown,
As useful as a dyslexic on countdown
I think to myself as I slowly rot
On the corner outside Ali’s Kebab Shop
With the fake friends and fag ends
The late trains, the ghastly gaze
Of crack heads and estate agents.
No one knows who’s worse
When the only way out is in a hearse.
Yeah, it’s a plug hole of lost souls
All these die hards on the dole
As the lard drips from kebab tragedies
Their day becomes a horror scene
Of Grolsch and group mentality
With monopoly money, made to lose
Street fight cluedo where no one knows who’s who
And human jenga towers where the poor get pissed and the rich keep the power.
But this is not a board game – it’s real, it’s boring and we’re in pain so surely
As we drink down our insecurities and snort our boring stories
It’s a comedy in the cubicles, chats between the pissing stations.
Life and death and loo roll – Not so great expectations
Dave and Darren fight over Karen, so drunk they don’t realise they’ve smashed a shop front and she’s a mannequin
Diane throws her handbag at Daisy – misses, hits a copper and gets tazered.
It’s nights like this I wish I’d stayed in and been lazy.
As lard drips from kebabs onto a ghost down, a dead street
Every man and every woman keeps to themselves
For fear of being seen as a real human being.
And they crawl back at dawn, the dead
Sat on sticky sofas say: “Same again, next Saturday?