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Three daysThree monthsThree daysThree monthsA treatiseA treatiseTo explain theseFirst was cash ’n’ carry house danceIn lancashire they’re aIn king nat ltd. empireKwik save is thereThe scene started hereThen was americaThen was americaWe went thereBig a&m herb was there**His offices had fresh airBut his rota was mediocreUs purge, rock ’n’ pop filthTheir material’s filchedAnd the secret of their livesIs...All the english groupsAct like peasants with free milkOn a routeOn a route to the lootTo candy mountainFive wacky english proletariat idiotsCalifornians always think of sexOr think of deathFive hundred girl deathsA mexico revenge, it’s stolen landThey really get it off onDon’t hurt me pleaseRapist fill the tvsAnd the secret of their livesIs s.e.x..I have dreams, I can seeCarloads of negro nazisLike faust with beardsHydrochloric shaved weirds[applause from audience at cyprus tavern ]This was going to be called crap rap fourteen,But it’s now stop mithering.The things that drain you off and drive you off the hinge.Boils, dirty socks, the ceilings collapse.The sunday morning loud lawn mower,The upstairs jewish girl damn hoovering every thirty minutes,From valium cig withdrawal.She wants communal, fluent flat household.I want privacy.The bastard dentist doctors surgery,Clip, clop, ring, knock, ringStop mithering***The estates stick up like stacksThe estates stick up like stacksThe residents keep wild dogsAnd on that father’s bedroom closet top,Electric blanket boxesSurplus jonnies, demob picturesTo their children they singStop mitheringYou think you’ve got it bad with thin ties,Miserable songs synthesized, or circles with a in the middle.Make joke records, hang out with gary bushell,Join round table. I like your single yer great!A circle of low iq’s.There are three rules of audience.My journalist acquaintances, go soft, go places,On record company expenses.I lose humor, manners become bog writers, don’t know it.The smart hedonists, same as last verse, allusions withH in electronics, on stage false histrionics,Corpse mauling dicks, pose through a good film, him, himStop mitheringI’m not joining conventional rock band.The conventional is experimental, the conventional is nowExperimental,And is no way noble, and I’m no chock stock thing.So stop mithering.Engineers save up for cars.I try to let down their tyres with matches to make them molten.Ouch! ouch!They say I rip off johnny rottenThey always strike for more pay.They say see yer mate..yeh...see yer mateTo their mothers they singStop mitheringHe even did fail the penile tissue test.He hangs out for sex.He enters magazine contest.White tan horror in the mirror.Spotty exterior hides a spotty interior.He’s not your enemy.He’s not your enemy, his name is not harry.The secret of cash and carry.