Lyrics Big Burt - Sleaford Mods

Big Burt

It is bastard biz
Slim shirt, belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
Darts player, tungsten delivery phantom
On the treble sixty
It’s really dated
And yet you still caught it
Make out you’re knowledgeable
You still rate it
Airfix dickheads
You snap-on tools who never grow
Shelling out fifteen-hundred pounds to see an has-been
Who can’t even do three gigs in one go, what’s that?
Wheel that on a three-sixty
You music magazines lying to us
Just to stay in print
Well, I want a free frisbee
Plugging a shit pic
So you can still parade around Arnos Grove in your get-up
Namedropping nineties pricks
Worse
It’s getting shitter
And no amount of talking about
Something that you’ll never do anything about
Is gonna make it better
Yeah, yeah, yeah
I got a wonky back
Inspector Gadget
In deep sea batter
80's cafè, Scampi champ
Alright chap, Bostom stump
You fall off, splatter
Beef jerky
After hours in the farm shop restaurant bar
Keys in a bowl murky
Legs eleven
Hundred percent dolphin-friendly
Nets in caravan kitchen heaven
We ain’t got a lot
And I don’t want God’s plan
Is it twenty-five pound a month for the handset
And free calls to the promised land?
We ain’t got a lot
And I don’t want God’s plan
Is it twenty-five pound a month for the handset
And free calls to the promised land?
I don’t want God’s plan
Is it twenty-five pound a month
And free calls to the promised land?
It is bastard biz
Slim shirt, belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
Belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
Belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
(They call me Big Burt)