(S. Rists)
Steve's licence got suspended, ain't got no car
We still play gigs, but we can't travel far
Lugging the drum kit on train, bus and tram
Crowds look sympathetic but don't give a damn
REPRISE CHORUS
We're writing deep songs, 'bout death and stuff
Then we go wild on stage, all tryin' to look tough
No-one understands the words that we sing
But none of them mind, they can't hear a thing
But no record contract, we're soon in debt
Out on the streets in the cold and the wet
Living on nothing but bread and cheese
The crowds are all gone, even the groupies
There's nothing compares to the pain and the hurt
When you're forced to sell one of your flannelette shirts
Lucky I have got another twelve
Or I'd be ready to kill myself
REPRISE CHORUS
But skin tight jeans - I won't suffer loss
'Cos the simple fact is, I can't get 'em off
I don't remember, they've been on for years
When I do up the zip, they reduce me to tears
So I paint them often, to make them look clean
Else wash them by dangling my legs in the machine
Anyway I'm out of money, and so bloody bored
Why don't I go out and paint some brick walls?
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