From a very large number of computer rounds

Making various assumptions

A-adopting various maxima and minimaThere 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