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Correct In Quiet Streets Lyrics
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Sleaford Mods
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Correct In Quiet Streets
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[Verse 1] Weaning it on my angle, you fucking satanist Its not a Pentangle, Arthur No druids, out of date barrel fluids I go large for a pound and regret it Greasy, a sharp contrast from my newly adopted organic nice mate Easy variety is the lie of life, no lonely hearts club Just a lonely collection of moose-face bastards Miliband got hit with the ugly stick, not that it matters The chirping cunt obviously wants the country in tatters They all do, two arms, two legs, fuck you Fuck you all, we don’t want radio play We’re not fucking Cannon and Ball Smashed houses, super farts Ta, ra, ta, ra, la, la, la, shit trousers [Chorus] That’s the angle That’s the angle [Verse 2] Wobbly chops, wobble at you Firm men snot the chop, I’ll dob ya Arthur, side car mayhem Cold streets, the hum of the traffic lights Pedal bikes, do what you want, ya what nat? Have it dom, I can’t eat any more bought in cakes That taste like koala waste Eucalyptus, you can fuck off I pick blackberries near the old contact centre The smell of late summer in spring, we step, they stop Advancement is only regarded as a good day in the money shop Cheques got cashed, nowhere money in nowhere land [Chorus] That’s the angle That’s the angle That’s the angle [Verse 3] Donors are peers, hey But in the old days you had to lead a group of men up a hill And got 'em shot by the locals mate Not now, now money murders We put our souls in nursery for the day Pick 'em up after work, take 'em home Try ‘n get 'em in bed tucked up before 10 o’clock Good drones, organic, the new church donation .org The virtual soap box in the park You got a mouthful, justify the nouce, spit ya venom The rulers don’t care it's still the 70's And they laugh at our ugly double denim We are the wooden horses on wooden race courses at fairs The top prize is damaged organs and nobody cares Death before your contact extension, puke on you They will assist in matters that don’t fucking interest you [Interlude] Keep it going [Verse 4] Mumbling procedure over the phone into ears that are having a seizure The seizure isn’t actually a physical crack It's your body trying to take itself back From rules, rules on mules in backpacks Over mountains that only exist in your mind trap Crevice, green bins terrace, steak club Tuesday Guest ales called Mother of Ruby, five point eight I ruined my first pint of Abbott getting two of those fucking things in mate Battered in a blanket of cheap meat, tweet I been on line since 2006 My login is Jason-wants-to-know-why-he-can’t-fuckin’-log-in-Keith Back office it, pass it on Fuck 'em, they can sort the problem [Outro] The angles right, it's 'ere tonight Basement revs my dreams Of bitter minds on seats with pints In quiet streets The angles right, it's 'ere tonight Basement revs my dreams Of bitter minds on seats with pints In quiet streets In quiet streets In quiet streets In quiet
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