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