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His heart organ was where it should be
His brain was in his arse
His hand was well out of his pocket
His psyche is in the hearth
Has a sneer which was weird
Some time ago
Heard Kraftwerk in '81
Has a WASP synthesizer
A real male, make-up as well
Sophisticate
WASP synthesizer
Didn't get far
In computer teaching job
His dream girl sings adverts for Renoir perfume
A fancied wit that's mere imitation of D. Bowie
in "Man Who Fell to Earth"
Whose causes and rags were phoenix-like
They were vaudevillian-like
They were comfort blanket-type
Dodo in fact
Pho-do in fact
Photo impact
He had a weak pisser
And one night at darts match
Decadent sandwich quaff
He showed he was a big fan of double-entendre
Saw "Man Who Fell to Earth" "History of the World"
"Man Who Fell to Earth" "History of the World, Part One"
twice each at least twice each at least twice each
Mere pseud mag editor's father
Nobody ever gave him a good turn. What do you expect? He was always let down. They never wanted to let his action down. But also they wanted it sublime Sheffieldism and equality equally. He was always in the middle for him. On the fields. Brooklands. They said tone it down. We all understood him. But he is hostile.
We are the elite gangsters of the damned, criminals of the damp. You must come with us, and hunt down - the hostile.
For years they have believed we were inspired by the Holy Spirit and the work of God. They still recognize that many prominent N.C. members are wonderful people. They're warm, intelligent, but terribly misguided.
Slowly, painfully, he become disillusioned. They call us "shadowy." Anti-hostile. They demand to know, with a touching, naive faith of the individual. Hostile.
Many times, brothers, have they tried to discredit out gangsterism. And now we're old, the elite of the damned.
Anti-hostile.
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