Every Friday evening poseurs from the pub Stroll into the disco to dance like Donald Duck Fog Lights come from heaven, the soldiers comes from hell An arm is lifted slowly, below the sweaty smell
We hate your sloppy music We love to sing some punk So stuff your fucking discos Way up where they belong
Go home, stuff your discos We hate, the poofed up hat They say, it's electric We know, because of that
The cue is getting larger, the money's rolling in If you don't wear flared trousers, they won't let you in The lights are getting softer, you reach out for a bird You tell her all the nice things, the same old boring wordsTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
