Lyrics PC Plod - Hak Baker

PC Plod

You’re gonna need your wits
And you’re gonna need your tricks
And you’re gonna need your feet planted
And you’re gonna need your spit sucked in to mark him
What can you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?
How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
I can smell 'em, let alone hear them
They smell fearsome, pierce up me eardrums
What do you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?
I don’t wanna go anywhere near them
They’re always mucking up the lads' dodgy dealing
How can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
Yeah, the old other lot
The other lot
Tryna give me Mum a knock
At one o’clock
Yeah, we had it, had it up to the top
Go nick the other lot
Go nick a nonce
I’ve had enough of the search and the stop
I’ve had enough of the plod, can’t stand a lot
Yeah, the old other lot
The other lot
The measly old PC, PC Plod
That’s the Old Bill for ya
That’s the Old Bill for ya
Pull up inside your quarters
Sendin' you for a quarter, hey
That’s the Old Bill for ya
That’s the Old Bill for ya
Them boy there out of order
The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi
Came in like a mortar
Smashed up me house inside
And lied inside of their disguises
And asked me the most mental of questions
Like I would ever tell him wherever I’d hide it, mate, mate
Just send me straight down to the station
I done a couple’a birds, I know how to ride it
No suicide, just me kettle and me rights
And me left and me rights
Why did anybody charge it
How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
They want me freedom, but little geezer
No, it’s not yours
After your subpoenas, who do we lean on for moral support?
They got me sweepin' up their wing for a chore
The first rule is to never get caught
Yeah, the old other lot
The other lot
Tryna clock the lads that plot
At one o’clock
Yeah, we bloody had it up, up to the top
Go and give a rob to cop
Your little job
Yeah we had enough of the drops to the court
Round to my mate’s, cut down his crop
Yeah, the old other lot
The other lot
The measly old PC, PC Plod
That’s the Old Bill for ya
That’s the Old Bill for ya
Pull up inside your quarters
Sendin' you for a quarter, hey
That’s the Old Bill for ya
That’s the Old Bill for ya
Them boy there out of order
The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi
Tryna turn me into roadkill
Still pulling me up on the road, still
This ain’t supposed to be colloquial
Why the fuck do you think we’re so anti-social?
Servin' up for a little hopeless meal
In the east-end the old folks are ill
They told me never to trust Old Bill, still
Oi, oi, oi
They bloody nicked me about thirty times
They bloody nicked me for about thirty crimes
Me and the lads’ll never stop spreadin' rhymes
Me and the lads’ll never stop, ay, ay
Fuckin' Old Bill, I hate your kind
Bloody Old Bill, I hate your kind
You wait until it’s our bloody time
Oi, oi, oi, oi
Oi, oi, oi, oi