| Total Control Racing
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| I was supposed to be going out, that took ages
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| Kids are hardcore, aren’t they?
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| They don’t mess about
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| Madhouse, chit-chat, duties, more nappies
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| Then I manage to get out
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| The sharp night whistled around my coat, as I motioned up to the main road
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| The wails of your offspring behind ya, cracking window
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| It’s hard, innit, when you plan to do something
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| But at that moment you realize it’s not quite right
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| Not really something you should be doing tonight
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| Well before me a few hellos, expectant mums with blokes that I know
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| The bus whirred, three-fifty all-day ticket
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| But I knew deep down I wasn’t going to use it later
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| I arrange my coat on the front seat and blend it in with the low lighting
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| People on the way out too, talking
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| Everyone still looks like Ena Sharples and Ray Reardon
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| People need to move on
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| That '50s look can do one
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| Elvis has definitely left the fucking building
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| I got a wine, large, shoved it down me, awful
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| I hate the 5.8
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| I thought about it, I thought about his face when I asked if he had any Rioja
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| He didn’t like it
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| Don’t look at me like that
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| Like you think I’m some wine twat
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| I like it
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| I sit in me house a lot
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| Eventually you get an idea, little shit
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| Go and listen to some fucking garage punk, you pointy little tit
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| The sofa sank, I couldn’t relax
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| I felt cramped but luckily the table next to me got up and left
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| And apart from the eight empty pint glasses they left on the table
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| I thought it was the better bet, more upright
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| I ain’t slouching, I’m not a beatnik
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| Although, this pub did call for that kind of angle
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| I hate going out, going out is for young people
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| I can’t sit and enjoy a drink, I want the lot
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| Have you got any numbers?
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| And how much has he got?
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| The trappings of luxury can’t save you from the nail-biting boredom of
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| repetitive brain injury
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| The injury of your useless mind, stuck to the track
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| Clinging onto years of that’s not yours that’s mine, give me it
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| Total Control Racing, TCR
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| Going round and round, under the bridges
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| Slowing down, it’s all about technique
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| Hand shandy chic, under five second flat
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| The tragedy of the male-less fucking man
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| TCR
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| Total Control racing
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| TCR
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| Total Control Racing
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| Total Control Racing
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| Total Control Racing |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song TCR , by - Sleaford Mods. Song from the album All That Glue, in the genre Панк