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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 poise
And hair 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 assed 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 week's drug
Make 'em all queue up to lick your arse
Wear a T-Shirt that says "Young, free and single"
Or a big badge that says "I'm hip; I'm working class".

The place is full of earholes
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

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Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.