I Don't Wanna Disco Or Two

From a very large number of computer rounds
Making various assumptions
A-adopting various maxima and minima
There is in fact a terrible forecast of a breakdown of world society
In the first decades of the next century

The entertainment for the night
Watching a toilet, swimming in piss
Who's gonna tip it over the edge?
You get a prize for it

People ripped to shreds by the whip of exploitation
Are deadened, bleeding, you failed in expectation
I walk around looking at the toe rags with no money
Which one's gonna pop me?
Break into the house, nick the microwave
Stab me in the throat, use my aftershave, old spice fucker

Mediocre, mediocre
Mediocre, yeah, mate
I'm gonna blade you, fuck the maze
First blood, I put a bit of wet dog shit in your undugged tits
Scaly-faced boozed pricks

No experience equals no deliverance
I'm gonna tip your canoe
Copious bollocks, we wanna get high, and we wanna get loaded
And then we're gonna cry and moan about the fucker

I don't wanna disco or two
I don't wanna disco or two

World interiors and Baltic restaurants
Smile, veil food and wine
Eight pound on two pints
I got a fag off the barman
Moody Friday, stop trying to show off
It doesn't matter where I got my coat from, mate
You what? Look just fuck off

Rain, stain, callous
I want a pint and fight, I don't wanna improve my fucking life for you
You make more money out of my existence than I do
I dodge the small towners, the music scene, think they are shit bands

You're all wankers, grinder man bores
White funk snores
Good relationships with the industry donkeys and live down South
Talent forecasts, shut your mouth

I don't wanna disco or two
I don't wanna disco or two

Pukka pies, meal deal with a drink, five-ninety-nine
Pot-bellied promoters, cheap coasters
I can't get the fucking stain off
You know the song's shit, I like it, so what?
That's why I fucking wrote it

Blaise, make your cleg nuts fight the loo roll, mate
High, high, high fever
Pete Wiley dog shit, singer turner DJs
Fucking nonsense, just a quick quid
Useless like Rick Pete, slow death in Stone Island

Alcohol down the fucking orange tree
Strawberry fields forever, fucking
What dog shit?
Christmas log, jog on
Mystical face twat headlines
Look at the wise men sing
I'm flash, here's the ball, I beat your fucking soldiers up ming

I don't wanna disco or two
I don't wanna disco or two
I don't wanna disco or two
I don't wanna disco or two