| That’s sickly clean, this mild and meek
|
| I could launch it with a poker, no danger for a weekend
|
| It opens its mouth, there’s no words, just a squeak
|
| I can launch it with a poker, no joker for a weekday
|
| Bing bong, the weekday
|
| Bing bong, no danger
|
| Here goes a sweet freak
|
| How many fools do you get in the school
|
| Of an English county classroom?
|
| All the things going on inside your bill bong
|
| There’s no room, it’s just pure art room
|
| You try very hard to get that right
|
| To imitate some kind of life form
|
| A matter of fact, without any tact
|
| You can go on back you, you shouldn’t have been burn
|
| Bing bong, no danger
|
| Bing bong, the sweet freak
|
| Diggers mothers, switch on the cooker
|
| Get the hillbillies down, set out to bugger
|
| Sweet freak pen and ink
|
| How do you make a bulldog think?
|
| Happy Christmas, I said, not to speak then
|
| Happy Christmas, when’s it’s next week then
|
| And you swear, you naughty meathead
|
| What sleeps in your bed, is got to be a geek Ted
|
| Bing bong, the weekday
|
| Bing bong, no danger
|
| How many fools do you get in the schools
|
| Of an English county
|
| All the things going on inside your built bomb
|
| There’s no room, it’s just pure art room
|
| Sweet freak, pen and ink
|
| How do we get these dogs to think?
|
| Sweet freak pen and ink
|
| It’s dangerous to let the freaky dink in
|
| Chopper up, cooker, give me some smother
|
| I can’t stand the thought of the dwarf bein' a mother
|
| Is this love, man, it’s pure hate
|
| If you put it on the table, it’ll be to late
|
| Is this love, man? |
| No, it’s pure hate
|
| It can’t be more simple, it’s there on a plate
|
| Is this love, man? |
| No it ain’t
|
| Is this love, man? |
| No, it’s pure hate
|
| Is this love, man? |