My Music

(álbum: Sleaford Mods - 2007)

Yah

I couldn't give a toss about your shit tunes
You fat bastard
Fuck you
Game show host
Thinks he's Quincy Jones
In reissued [?]
Close linked with the sheep
They're everywhere
Selling you expensive clothes
Serving you drinks
Or giving a consultation
Over your flaky fashion hair

You are not obsessed with music
You are obsessed with the idea
Of being obsessed with music
I think you're starting to lose it

Why don't you get on a Wham! angle
Choose life
Don't choose music
My music
Don't choose music
My music
Don't choose music
My music

Countless promises
Donkey's carrot
Your victories are few
This ain't Rome
You accuse people
Of trying to be mysterious
Well look at you
The monopoly isn't yours
It's a game anyone can play
I'll be throwing pint glasses
At your bedroom window
When I'm doing lager shits
On your pretty park lane

Comic plaster two black eyes
What's happened to you?
The casino, Kato
I don't need to be running around
Looking like Inspector Clouseau
But I will
Any kind of trust, friendship
It will be walked over
I am a sex addict
It's a modern phenemenon
I'm a wanker
I'm shagging your missus
In a dirty flat
You hold the camera
Cause this is Ben Dover

You are not obsessed with music
You are obsessed with the idea
Of being obsessed with music
I think you're starting to lose it

Why don't you get on a Wham! angle
Choose life
Don't choose music
My music
Don't choose music
My music
Don't choose music
My music

There's no glory in beating down the door
Of repetition
Don't dress it up
Buy a map embrace your soul
For the awful unfolding scene
Of the future
Bona fide recognition
I'm getting hot wires crossed
Sheer frustration
Why doesn't my key
Fit in the fucking ignition?
Unemployment, stress
Binges in dingy rooms
In an unforgiving city
Redeployment
Only to find I much preferred
Unemployment
And the feeling of you never know
What's going to happen next

It's 34 degrees
I'm wearing a pair of crap shorts
And a seven year old vest
The exam went well but
I failed the pissing test
What a mess
What a fucking mess
More is less
Because we are the flatland mods
In 1962 we kicked it off
And the West End jazz cafes
Get all the recognition
Phil Daniels didn't help matters
He should have had an accent
From the East Midlands
The King's Road always gets the perqs
But it don't work
Like riding a PX from Stamford
All the way to Lisbon
I love you [?]
Come out of that dark patch
Now lets rule Nottingham
They never even saw us coming
Cause I sing loud and proud for Black Gibson