| My name is Malcolm McLaren
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| I have brought you many things in my time
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| But the most successful of all
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| Was an invention of mine they called punk rock
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| Ah, let me start from the beginning
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| Find just four kids
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| Make sure they hate each other
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| Make sure they can’t play
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| There was Steve Jones
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| Eighteen years of age
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| A brilliant cat burglar
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| I nominated him guitarist
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| Ah, there was another fellow, Paul Cook
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| Seventeen years of age
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| A phenomenal acrobat in A-1 condition
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| Always on time, he had to provide the beats
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| Lurking in the corner of the shop
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| I noticed this Dickensian figure
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| Had it not been for his green hair
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| I’d have thought him
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| Something out of «David Copperfield»
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| I took the opportunity of confronting him
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| He pretended to think me an idiot, pushed me aside
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| When I learned he was Irish
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| And Steve saw his green teeth
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| We called him Johnny Rotten
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| Then there was Sidney, with a natural terrorist
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| Working in the clubs ensured him
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| That every gig the group played
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| Ended up in an unpredictable, bloody mess
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| Bashing and jumping all about
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| He invented the Pogo
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| I call them the Sex Pistols
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| With the line-up complete
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| We immediately set about
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| Putting our plan into effect
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| To swindle our way
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| To the top of the Rock 'n' Roll industry
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| It was a plan that within two years
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| Was to bring us close to a million pounds |