Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song In Quiet Streets, artist - Sleaford Mods.
Date of issue: 23.07.2015
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
In Quiet Streets |
Weaning it on my angle, you fucking satanist |
Its not a Pentangle, Arthur |
No druids, out of date barrel fluids |
I go large for a pound and regret it |
Greasy, a sharp contrast from my newly adopted organic nice mate |
Easy variety is the lie of life, no lonely hearts club |
Just a lonely collection of moose-face bastards |
Miliband got hit with the ugly stick, not that it matters |
The chirping cunt obviously wants the country in tatters |
They all do, two arms, two legs, fuck you |
Fuck you all, we don’t want radio play |
We’re not fucking Cannon and Ball |
Smashed houses, super farts |
Ta, ra, ta, ra, la, la, la, shit trousers |
That’s the angle |
That’s the angle |
Wobbly chops, wobble at you |
Firm men snot the chop, I’ll dob ya |
Arthur, side car mayhem |
Cold streets, the hum of the traffic lights |
Pedal bikes, do what you want, ya what nat? |
Have it dom, I can’t eat any more bought in cakes |
That taste like koala waste |
Eucalyptus, you can fuck off |
I pick blackberries near the old contact centre |
The smell of late summer in spring, we step, they stop |
Advancement is only regarded as a good day in the money shop |
Cheques got cashed, nowhere money in nowhere land |
That’s the angle |
That’s the angle |
That’s the angle |
Donors are peers, hey |
But in the old days you had to lead a group of men up a hill |
And got 'em shot by the locals mate |
Not now, now money murders |
We put our souls in nursery for the day |
Pick 'em up after work, take 'em home |
Try ‘n get 'em in bed tucked up before 10 o’clock |
Good drones, organic, the new church donation .org |
The virtual soap box in the park |
You got a mouthful, justify the nouce, spit ya venom |
The rulers don’t care it’s still the 70's |
And they laugh at our ugly double denim |
We are the wooden horses on wooden race courses at fairs |
The top prize is damaged organs and nobody cares |
Death before your contact extension, puke on you |
They will assist in matters that don’t fucking interest you |
Keep it going |
Mumbling procedure over the phone into ears that are having a seizure |
The seizure isn’t actually a physical crack |
It’s your body trying to take itself back |
From rules, rules on mules in backpacks |
Over mountains that only exist in your mind trap |
Crevice, green bins terrace, steak club Tuesday |
Guest ales called Mother of Ruby, five point eight |
I ruined my first pint of Abbott getting two of those fucking things in mate |
Battered in a blanket of cheap meat, tweet |
I been on line since 2006 |
My login is Jason-wants-to-know-why-he-can't-fuckin'-log-in-Keith |
Back office it, pass it on |
Fuck 'em, they can sort the problem |
The angles right, it’s 'ere tonight |
Basement revs my dreams |
Of bitter minds on seats with pints |
In quiet streets |
The angles right, it’s 'ere tonight |
Basement revs my dreams |
Of bitter minds on seats with pints |
In quiet streets |
In quiet streets |
In quiet streets |
In quiet |