Well the sun goes down on London town
But it never sets on Oxford Street.
Those well spoken young men
And their bouncers,
Are trying to create a well dressed elite.
And all on private medicine,
Tut tut.
Once inside join the rising tide
Of people who are so proud to get in.
Who think their face is their fortune,
But under their skin their ugly as sin.
Didn't I meet you down at the clinic?
And lots of boys with lots of poison
There right down to their hips,
There're lots of pretty girls with suntans
And cold sores on their lips.
Is he your boyfriend
Or is he just here to hold your coat?
Or take it off, take it off, take it off
And let's find out.
Half passed tries with half cast eyes,
Are sucking in their cheeks until it hurts.
Lots of twats in funny hats,
With Karl Marx printed on their shirts.
Will tell you,
Revolution is just a state of mind.
Oh this is Saturday night
In the West End alright,
And these people are not my kind.
You can cut the rug with this weeks drug
Make 'em all queue up to lick your ass
Wear a T-Shirt that says
"Young, free and single",
Or a big badge that says
"I'm here, punk working class".
The place is full of ear holes,
Who hang on every word
That they speak.
Who believe what they write
About themselves,
Week after week after week after week
I don't know how they get away with it,
They should be ashamed.
While if it's all so bloody beautiful
Well take it home and have it framed.