| So OK | 
| You think I’m some kind of | 
| Semolina-headed | 
| Fired and fettered | 
| Little virgin | 
| Well, that’s OK with me | 
| One arm in the ashtray | 
| One arm around your neck | 
| Pulling you across the six-weeks sheets to me | 
| Oh! | 
| You see | 
| Oh! | 
| You see | 
| I could be a walking one-man career | 
| For some psychiatrist | 
| It’s true | 
| I’m open to everyone | 
| Unique to a few | 
| What about you? | 
| Yeah! | 
| How about you? | 
| A sleaze burger | 
| Grease grimer | 
| Eyeliner | 
| Whiner | 
| Up to your ears in a mecca of broken dreams | 
| Only just getting by | 
| With another calculated lie | 
| Your lobotomy eyes | 
| Tell me a million different versions | 
| Of what you’ve seen | 
| And what you’ve been | 
| Trying to dodge the shadows | 
| Of the lights upon the tarmac | 
| Desperation kicks me to the kill | 
| 'Cos baby | 
| I’m waiting at the station | 
| For my train to ruination | 
| Just trying to find a way to cheat the bill | 
| If they hit you on one cheek | 
| Then smash them on the other | 
| It’s a knuckle-duster path | 
| We walk to survive | 
| Pinch yourself and shake the sand out of the seams | 
| As the time | 
| To climb out of the litter bin arrives | 
| Loose limbed and lycra lipped | 
| My lipsalve sticks on you | 
| Blitzed and bomber bug eye | 
| Bite the soft skin on the inside | 
| Resist the watering sensation | 
| To bite my way right through | 
| Bite my way right through you | 
| I’m gonna bite my way right through you | 
| All washed up and nowhere to go | 
| All washed up and nowhere to go | 
| Nowhere to go | 
| Nowhere to go | 
| Nowhere to go | 
| I gotta go go go | 
| I’m gonna go go go | 
| The kitchen smells | 
| Smoked and burnt and up | 
| Stale milk and | 
| Rotten peel across the floor | 
| Watch you with admiration | 
| As you get yourself together | 
| To peel the damp dried | 
| Teabags off the wall | 
| Salvage up some sugar | 
| To sweeten up together | 
| From the bugs that bite | 
| Escaping from the bed | 
| Love this riddled ruin | 
| Be the bag to hide my head in | 
| And walk the weary way | 
| To desolation day, instead | 
| We’re waiting at the station | 
| For our train to ruination | 
| Who cares the destination! | 
| Who cares if we arrive | 
| The smell of us | 
| The damp | 
| That eats the bathroom round the tiles | 
| Something tells me | 
| We’ve been here all the time |