We’d love to kill yourselves
Put your body parts onto shelves,
Extract, where’s the conduct-in’g’un, gimme the knife
Slice into your life,
Stun-ning flows in reddy ruddy rainbows, the colour it compose
Post it to the river water, send it out of order
Murder investigation, and everybody wants the information
We’d love to, cruise control, rower-man romans; sandal have no soles
We’ll take your souls, and feed them to the festivals
We’ll examine exactly who you’re going to be
Once sitting in, on, upon, none a tree
More wood, like paperous flat self used by machete,
Clubbed into the news, sun, mirror, mail, the independente
We’d love to get on the news,
As celebrities that blew a fuse, and killed a few, but to us
Not enough,
Your meat was too tough, your skin was too rough
We’d love to abuse yourselves,
Getting you ‘wee’ threatened, pissing your pants, talking on lines of help,
Yelp, there’s a big munchkin just plunged into my leg as it it were honey roasted chicken in a warm granary bread
It’s all a stun gun thanks to Bobby John,
Someone in Somerset starts to sweat,
Long johns on, the puddle be out of question, we quer’ no wet,
Such nettles couldn’t have you,
We brag all about you,
We are awe in demon,
We even drink your sea-man…
…No mans land looks like, invasion of hands by termites:
Shaun of the Dead, at dawn, yeah you got that right,
We’d love to fuck you over, get holding onto teddy tight
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