Psycle Sluts, Parts 1 & 2

Part 1: This disc concerns those those pouting prima-donnas Found within the swelling J. Arthur Ranks of the sexational psycle sluts Those nubile nihilists of the North Circular The lean leonine leatherette lovelies of the Leeds intersection Luftwaffe angels locked in a pagan paradise No cash A passion for trash The tough madonna whose cro-magnon face and crab nebular curves haunt the highways of the UK Whose harsh credo captures the collective libido like lariats Their lips pushed in a neon-arc of dodgems Delightfully disciplined, dumb but deluxe Deliciously deliciously deranged Twin-wheeled existentialists steeped in the sterile excrements of a doomed democracy Whose post-nietzschean sensibilities reject the bovine gregariousness of a senile oligarchy Whose god is below zero, whose hero is a dead boy Condemned to drift like forgotten sputniks in the fool's orbit bound for a victim's future In the pleasure dromes and ersatz bodega bars of the free world The mechanics of love grind like organs of iron to a standstill Hands behind your backs In a noxious gas of cheek to cheek totalitarianism Hail the psycle sluts Go go the gland gringos For the gonad a-go-go age of compulsory cunnilingusa Part 2: The dirty thirty The naughty forty The shifty fifty Tthe filthy five Zips, clips, whips and chains Wait for you to arrive Hell's Angels by the busload Stoned stupid, how they strut Smoked woodbines till they're banjoed And smirk at the Swedish smut Life on the straight and narrow path Drives you off your nut By day you are psycopath By night you're a psycle slut On a BSA with two bald tires You drove a million miles You cut your hair with rusty pliers And you suffer with the pillion piles You got built in obsolescence Oh you got guts But you don't reach adolescence Slow down psycle sluts Motor cycle Michael Wants to buy a tank Only twenty-nine years old And he's learning how to wank Yesterday he was in the groove Today he's in a rut My how the moments move Brut fun psycle sluts He cacks on your originals He peepees on his boots He makes love like a footballer He dribbles before he shoots The goings on at the gang-bang ball Made the citizen's tut-tut-tut But, what do you care, piss all You tell 'em psycle sluts Now your boyfriend burned his jacket Ticket expired Tyres are knackered Knackers are tired You can tell your tale to the gutter press Get paid to peddle smut Now you've ridden the road of excess That leads to the psycle sluts Or you can dine and whine on stuff that's bound to give you boils Hot dogs direct from cruft's Done in diesel oil Or the burger joint around the bend Where the meals thank christ are skimpy For you that's how the world could end Not with a bang but a Wimpy