Big Burt

It is bastard biz Slim shirt, belly pops out They call me Big Burt Darts player, tungsten delivery phantom on the treble sixty Barton's Red Baron, hey, Duggee, a-woof Monkey coloured, round, all these shapes A-woof, it's really dated and yet you still court it Make out, you're knowledgeable You still rate it airfix dickheads You snap-on tools who never grow Shelling out fifteen-hundred pounds to see an has-been Who can't even do three gigs in one go, what's that? Wheel that on a three-sixty You music magazines lying to us just to stay in print Well, I want a free frisbee, plugging a shit pic So you can still parade around Arnos Grove in your get-up Name-dropping '90s pricks Worse It's getting shitter And no amount of talking about Something that you'll never do anything about Is gonna make it better Yeah, yeah, yeah I got a wonky back inspector Gadget in deep sea batter '80s cafè, Scampi champ, alright chap, Bostom stump You fall off, splatter beef jerky After hours in the farm shop, restaurant bar Keys in a bowl murky, legs 11 Hundred percent dolphin-friendly nets in Caravan Kitchen Heaven We ain't got a lot And I don't want God's plan Is it 25 pound a month for the handset And free calls to the promised land? We ain't got a lot And I don't want God's plan Is it 25 pound a month for the handset Free calls to the promised land? I don't want God's plan Is it 25 pound a month And free calls to the promised land? It is bastard biz Slim shirt, belly pops out They call me Big Burt Belly pops out, they call me Big Burt Belly pops out, they call me Big Burt (They call me Big Burt)