You wake up in a sleepy village,
Have your tea with your eggs and sausage,
Feeling weird and being savage
Or just drunk as your mate may think.
With no rhyme for this fucking “village”
An excursion over the storage
In a nice polka-dotted bandage
And a lovely fantastic thing.
You can put it into the pocket
Of your arty corduroy jacket
And then go have a game of cricket
With your best alcoholic friend.
Guess, he knows that you’re gonna rock it.
If there’s nothing to say – just fuck it,
Catch a concorde without a ticket
And go bouncing until the end.
Land the plane on the streets of Glasgow,
Rob the food department of Tesco,
Have a glass of your morning whisky
In the depths of the Horse-shoe bar.
If there isn’t that much to ask for
You can try to pretend a dance whore
In the backstreets of San-Francisco,
Just make sure you won’t go too far.
Feel the White House inside of you burning
And don’t care for the sake of winning.
Turn your head and you’ll see it coming
And then look for a place to hide.
Never think of what you are earning,
If it constantly lacks the meaning
Your way out – is to keep on running
Just until you stop writing shite.