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Right in the centre of Hove, |
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Next to an escalator, |
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Someone has hidden a bomb |
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Underneath a plastic chair |
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But he can't put his finger on it: |
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He'll never be that kind of man. |
|
He'll die in his bed on a summer's night |
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With his hand on his favourite thing. |
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Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
|
Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
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Maybe it's a natural phase, |
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Comedy has taken its toll. |
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No-one is totally lost, |
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Nobody is out of control. |
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There are words he could use to describe it, |
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Metaphors he should have applied. |
|
He'll die in his bed on a summer's night |
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With his hands on his adequate bride. |
|
Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
|
Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile! |
|
Smile! |
|
Smile, we're waiting for it. |
|
Smile, we're waiting for |
|
Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
|
Those kids, I swear, drink Nike, yes. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
|
Smile-alalalalalalalalalalala. |
