Septic Jubliee

We're weekend smokers, part-time users
Said to possess a sick sense of humor
We slap ourselves in the face, then fall asleep

We're blood brothers bent on a ruckus
Curb-crawling for someone to love us
With a buckled whip and a clean set of polythene sheets

We're big thinkers, children of greatness
Polished speakers, hopes to be famous
Bulldog grip, pussy-whipped and wagging our tails

We're clean players, honorable losers
Cradle-rocking computer abusers
Driven on by a paranoid fear of shame

So rich, we spit through mouthfuls of mother of pearl
Great Britian sits like a tick on the skin of the world

We're channel swimmers, colony baggers
Handbag snatchers with impeccable manners
Whatever the weather, we're ready to sail again

We love music, the dumber the better
Dribble "Rule Britannia" like chronic bed wetters
As wax work rock groups melt down memory lane

The flag's lit rip and the stiff upper lips all curl
Great Britian sits like a tick on the skin of the world

We're sensitive lovers, passionate kissers
And once we get drunk enough, brutal and vicious
We're destiny's men but the rest of them envy our souls

We're home owners, landlords of corridors
Inmates on tax-breaks, hemmed in by fire-doors
By night, we binge, by day we cringe in our holes

We're spy masters, souls of discretion
We know how attack makes a great first impression
Quick to defend quick to any friend, quick to charge them a fee

We're trophy winners, grocers par excellence
Slick in the kitchen and sick in the restaurant
Stagger & fight through a Saturday night and we're free