Lyrics

Every tweed-clad soul I despise and hate Crawled by in a procession Of top-of-the-line Range Rovers with personalised number plates As the crops grow tall all ambition decays And is instead replaced by a rudderless rage Expounded each week Same time, same place By white faced racists Who crimson to pink After seeing red At the bottom of their tenth drink down The Kings Then it's on to B&T That stands for 'bitter and twisted' I don't think a better example of irony has ever existed Or perhaps of atrophy Time drags and sags off brittle bones in the country There's no cartoonishly chipper 'very big house' in Chippy "You alright my duck?" says someone's Nan to someone's Godson's Mum's sister As the sound of the hunting horn – brought forth by some bloated, birth-defect, incest lips Is heard reverberating in the distance The pathetic sound stirs the withered genitalia of the pugnacious huntsmen Proof once and for all that slaughter is the most miraculous cure for chronic erectile dysfunction