Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the fuckin Cov
But he don't care
I take up the right, left view and the road in front too
And make up my mind, slide past you
There's always animals singing on everyday
No cars to drown the noise of this, yea
Just queues for the clinic and 6ft conversation
I don't wanna talk, innit
I don't wanna talk to you, you cunt
You boring fucking cunt
Looked grim
Then all of a sudden I didn't give a shit about it and just became in
Got in with it, didn't touch anything
Just stared into a cold month with no people near it
I got stunned but the ivy grew back nice on my back wall under that sun like, who was ità
Necking soft drinks in a Sydney bar was just really good, won't ità
Planes flying dead low
So warm and people taking shit on Mandy
Not me though
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the fuckin Cov
But he don't care
Why's this cunt got police protection?
He wasn't even running in the last election
I bet his partner at night sez things like
"It's all for the good of your ideas"
Putting milk in the bowls of his children's inevitable tears every morning
Insane
Watch 'em get depressed under the lockdown stress
Little slap headed cunt, get Brexit punched
Let's get Brexit fucked by an horse's penis until its misery splits
Ugly rich white men get shagged by it
Squeak
North London suburbs carry the pain in the bricks, religion and wheat
MP's popping up like newly planted council trees
Squeak squeak
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the fuckin Cov
But he don't care
Benches with RIP badges under swaying trees that kiss the energy damaged
People underneath, same old same old, dug outs and old walks, footings
Oh fuck, story's about the origins of buildings, slight hills, panic behind the tills
Rumble rumble, get the hot weather and some fucker got a beer or two
Old firm hands unemployed, loitering
You just get fucking annoyed like, whatà?
Drop kick ya silly bastards in my dreams that's about ya lot
Mumble mumble, dragging out slight hills, more panic behind the tills
Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the fuckin Cov
But he don't care
(Panic behind the tills)
(Panic behind the tills)
(Panic behind the tills)
(Panic behind the tills)
Sleaford Mods are a post-punk duo formed in Nottingham in 2007 by vocalist Jason Williamson and musician Simon Parfrement. In 2012, Parfrement was replaced by Andrew Fearn. Known for their abrasive and minimalist musical style, Sleaford Mods stand out for their diatribes against austerity Britain, the working class condition, and consumerist culture. Their songs often incorporate samples of electronic music and industrial rhythms, creating a unique and powerful sound. Their album *Eton Alive* (2014) has been called "the most complete manifesto of working-class rage exasperated by widespread digital alienation". Representative tracks include: *Tied Up In Notts*, *Austerity*, *Bunch of Kunst*.
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