No... no...
No... no...
Oi, gunslinger
Sling some of them guns over here
Oi, gunslinger
Lob some of them guns over here
I got no balls
Evidently
The cars miss each other
On a roundabout that I can see
The summer's on its arse
I bang the word up to number ten
If you think you're a dangerous villain, mate
Well then, I'd actually think again, you're not
Blackbeard was
'Cause everybody's writing tunes these days
What ya doing tonight?
Just mixing that tune over in, alright
What ya doing tonight?
Yeah, I'm just mixing that tune over in, alright
Clueless bastards with well paid jobs
Will not turn into Sly and Robbie
Just because they've installed Ableton
On their Mac's
Yeah, ta da
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
I don't get by no more
I just cause a sea of shit
The eye of the tiger got slapped to fuck
By the eye of the conniver's kick
I'm Herr Flick with a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg with a bit of lip balm on
I'm about to fart, the waves part
Plastic, fantastic
A Colt 45, low alcohol, no stock
Lawrie McMenemy turning in his grave
He's still alive, is he?
I'm a bag head, Dave
Shut the fuck up, Dave
The loneliness of the long distance runner
I don't give a fuck what you think about me
I'll make friends anywhere, I'm a stunner
I got marching powder, it's a grey sheet
And raindrops that lace houses of [?]
To rock bottom obscurity on the bleak streets of Lenton
It's bleak
Yeah, ta da
Fuck off back to your Wendy house
Yeah, ta da
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
I got annoyed with it
Here, gimme your tits out for twenty quid
Admit it, signs of times, and I can't be arsed
Bipolar depression, please
You had too many sessions, ain't ya?
On any type of drug
'Cause Radio 2 is gonna shake Russell Brand by the hand
I'm sick of these fucking free spirits, you're not
I met one once
It was in a small glass at a party
Where you didn't have to pay for anything
And God, I wished I spent my time a little bit wiser
I got no one now, man
Just a few more holes in a belt
It's gettin' a bit tighter
Pain in my left lung, a dull ache
The party's over for me
The rebirth of cool was a miscarriage
The journey home, the God's honest truth
A passport, birth certificate
Sixteen other forms of ID for further proof
You wanna shoot me down? Well, fuckin' do it then
This is the return of Skint Eastwood
With a wrecked head
Fuck off back to your Wendy house
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
Herr Flick
With a wooden arm
Captain Pegleg
With a bit of lip balm on
Yeah, ta da
