Jam sandwich filled with Uzied peelers,
Frisking pimps and dawn car dealers,
The Fat Controller's transport inches—
When stealing lives, he never flinches.
Observe the poker party aces
In champagne bars, unlikely spaces,
Unnerving, swerving shifty places
Where little works or convinces.
They clip their speech,
They clip your wings.
The absent tribe of missing links,
The absolute of vodka kings,
The over-crowded nature of things.
The over-crowded nature of things.
The over-crowded nature of things.
Follow me! No explanation.
The future sold, the Chancellor paces.
The growing pains, associated
With a past which no-one faces.
They clip their speech,
They clip your wings.
The absent tribe of missing links,
The absolute of vodka kings,
The over-crowded nature of things.
They clip their speech,
They clip your wings.
The absent tribe of missing links,
The absolute of vodka kings,
The over-crowded nature of things.
It's a bad worn thing!
It's a bad worn thing!
It's a bad worn thing!
It's a bad worn thing!
