Call me old fashioned. But I'm a little nervous about the future. I've got no enthusiasm. For burgers or computers. . Televisions bores me now. In a hundred different ways.
I walked from my baby's Brixton flat. Into a riot. I thought of maybe turning back. Till things were quiet. . When all the buildings to be burned. Had been burned.
Hello, good evening and welcome. to nothing much. A no holds barred half -nelson. and the loving touch. The comfort and the joy. of feeling lost. With the only living boy in New Cross.
Hot from Hell and Hades. For gentlemen and ladies. The little biddy babies. And the household pet. . The punches and the Judys. The crunches and the bruises.
I'm not a racist but I am. I served my time in Vietnam. I've got three jobs, this is one. Sometimes I wish that I'd kept my gun. . This country's going down the tubes.
I'd like to teach the world to sing. And put an end to suffering if I could. With the dedicated heart and soul. Of Britain's greatest rock 'n' roll Robin Hood.
Fee fi fo fum. I smell the blood of Nazi scum. I want my dad and I want my mum. A Sherman tank and a load of guns. . If love is the answer. What was the question?.
The decorations are drab. It's dirty and it smells. You don't have to be mad to work here. But it helps. . The temptation to fail. Would make a boots bunny cry.
Suicide isn't painless. It hurts like Hell. It's set aside for the famous. A little suicide sells. . Nothing lasts forever. But nothing ever did. It's big but it's not clever.
When you've been watching the world die all day. And channel hopping won't make it go away. Put on your shoes come and share the blues with me. . This skinny swollen kiddie covered in flies.
This is not a love song and it serves no use. But if you want to sing along with some verbal abuse. It might make you feel better and it's good for the soul.
Ground floor Shoppers' Paradise. Haberdashery, needles, spoons and knives. Knuckle dusters, glass jaws and wooden hearts. . Spend your money girls, on sprays and lipsticks.
Now, Sheriff Fatman started out. In business, a granny farmer. He was infamous for fifteen minutes. And he appeared on Panorama. . But then he somehow got himself on board.
I worship the ground that you walk on. Give praise to the place where you sit. Your face and the space that you talk from. Your teeth and those unlucky lips.
The Christmas cards and greetings are arriving. Across the shifty sands to the war. By the time I get to read them, she'll be rising. To a fifty, fifty chance and nothing more.
In a bar Johnny drinks. Johnny drinks Johnnie Walker. Runs up a bill he can't pay. He's drinking to the memory. Of a prince in a paupers grave. . And it's go Johnny go.
When I saw his face and I was a believer. It was the automatic rifles. The Nintendo's and the Sega's. And the half a dozen dead disciples. . He claimed to be the son of God.
Mr. Jones knows The Stones. Rock 'n' roll is in his blood and in his bones. Shines his shoes, kicks some ass. Counts the booze and laminates his pass.
Once in a blue, your dreams come true. If someone's looking out for you. So party on dude, let's buy some booze. Go downtown and get tattoos. . Then go ahead and have good cry.
Don't open the box , take the money. Take it to the shops where we can spend it all, honey. . On 90's memorabilia and rock 'n' roll records. And experience the genius of Terrence and Leonard.