Stop telling me to tighten my belt, there's nothing left to tighten.
No squeeze. No honey pot. There's nothing lying under the bed.
And now you're laughing, at me, as my sides are splitting
Red raw laughing, as my sides are splitting, you're spitting.
Those rusting fossils, sweating piglets, stinking broken relics
Comfy seats, dirty sheets and repeated bleats.
You have the right to be disgusted
To shun this pageantry
Recognise your enemy, let them rot - the lot - let them fucking rot.
This is WAR, HORSE
There's Albion's spoilt children, aching for fame, yet again.
They're fucking on the cliffs of Dover, on that post war hangover
And we bask in witless wonder.
All this historic racist plunder.
And we sit. And we sit. Roll over. Now sit.
Entitled dribbling disasters, yet they're not your fucking masters.
You are not here for their entertainment
You are not here to make them money.
Do not beg, do not bow, do not curtsey.
Do not beg, do not bow, do not curtsey.
as this means WAR, HORSE
Stop telling me to tighten my belt
Stop telling me to wash my mouth, out
Stop telling me you're telling the truth
Stop telling me we're in it together
Stop telling me he did his best
Stop telling me we're levelling up
Stop telling me to get over it
Stop telling me! stop telling me!
WARHORSE