| A mile and a half on a bus takes a long time
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| The odour of old prison food takes a long time to pass you by
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| Day upon day of this wandering gets you down
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| Nobody gives you a chance or a dollar in this old town
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| Hovering silence from you is a giveaway
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| Squalor and smoke’s not your style
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| I don’t like this place
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| We better go
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| Then I compare notes with your older sister
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| I am a lazy git, she is as pure as the cold driven snow
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| What did you learn from your time in the solitary
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| Cell of your mind
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| There was noises, distractions from anything good
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| And the old prison food
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| Colour my life with the chaos of trouble
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| 'Cause anything’s better than posh isolation
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| I missed the bus
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| You were laid on your back with
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| the boy with the arab strap
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| With the boy from the arab strap
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| It’s something to speak of the way you are feeling
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| To crowds there assembled
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| Do you ever feel you have gone too far?
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| Everyone suffers in silence a burden
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| The man who drives minicabs down in Old Compton
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| The Asian man
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| With his love hate affair with his racist clientele
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| A central location for you is a must as you stagger
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| About making free with your lewd and lascivious boasts
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| We all know you’re soft 'cause we’ve all seen you dancing
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| We all know you’re hard 'cause we all saw you drinking
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| From noon until noon again
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| You’re the boy with the filthy laugh
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| You’re the boy with the arab strap
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| Strapped to the table with suits from the Shelter shop
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| Comic celebrity takes a back seat as the cigarette catches
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| And sets off the smoke alarm
|
| What do you make of the cool set in London?
|
| You’re constantly updating your hit parade of your ten biggest wanks
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| She’s a waitress and she’s got style
|
| Sunday bathtime could take a while |