The girl who lived in a shed is dead, she Died in the recent bad weather, her Body was found wrapped in blankets and clothes, Huddled up by a one bar heater The girl who lived in a shed is dead, Victim of financial crisis, she Couldn’t afford to stay in the sticks, but too Poor to live with London prices, three Hundred a week, just to keep off the streets? At Least the landlord’s making a killing, and Now that he has, they’ll just brick up the door - Small enough to double as her coffin The girl who lived in a shed is dead died before she could be evicted Now it’s a shell and that good awful smell’s The only proof she ever existed Girl who lived in a shed is dead - and out of respect for the departed Give it six months then they’ll have a spring clean then they’ll Put it back out on the market at Eight hundred a week, just to keep off the streets this madness shows no signs of stopping And you know very well take a cold day in Hell before its prices not people that are dropping The girl who lived in a shed is dead The girl who lived in a shed

Hey there preacher, leave those kids alone, oh yeah They don’t need sex education - Not the kind you’re offering Something unfunny happened on the way to the altar Cardinal O’Brien in hot pink brothel creepers Don’t you bash religion, the things that people do In its name are not the same as what it offers you Responsibility lies x 3 Every time Hey there preacher, leave those kids alone ... They don’t need sex education - Not the way you’re doing it. Something unfunny happened on the way to the altar Cardinal sin, it lurks in every dimly lit corner You don’t have to be a bigoted believer to See blind faith, blind hatred are as bad as one another Responsibility lies x 3 Every time ... If you want to bash religion, go ahead, for the right reasons Human lust and power, please don’t make it open season On any in a dog collar. We all need a faith a follow - Science, football, waking up to a better tomorrow But here comes Richard Dorkins, and he’s out to stick his oar in, Asks too much of all those who aren’t brave with disbelieving All but science - prove you’re better, leading by example Accepting any difference that’s is not your difference might yet make a difference ...

Ex-pats read the Daily Mail Import hate just one day late Get their prejudice confirmed - Russian Oligarchs dead in their beds, Paedophiles rule Britain since they left … Don’t like the people or cuisine Import Marmite, margarine Can’t be arsed with foreign tongue To their non-existent manor born Would have stayed at home if it was warm Europe wants to be one happy family, but We’re its racist grandad, telling crass, off-colour jokes We haven’t got a good word left to say ‘bout anyone Sadly Europe’s missed the point England hasn’t changed Cold-shouldered, left behind Out-thought, out-gunned, out-played What England gave the world, the World is giving back in spades Fourth-rate cold back water that Thinks it’s still important now, Dreams it’s still a world at war Tells itself it’s still a great world power Never got what was wrong with empire Cold snaps, cold hearts everywhere I’m not your average Englishman Give me one thing makes me proud Out of here soon as I get the chance I am saving up to move to France (oh the internal irony) Europe wants to be, one happy family, but We’re its racist grandad, telling crass, off-colour jokes We haven’t got a good word left to say ‘bout anyone Such a fucking shame that we’re still the fucking same Cold-shouldered, left behind Out-thought, out-gunned, out-played What England gave the world, the World is giving back in spades (England is its own shithole Tearing us a brand new arsehole for the sake of having two) Fake dream of Winston Churchill Matthew Arnold, Edith Sitwell doesn’t sit that well with me Rudyard Kipling, Coventry Patmore I don’t know if I can take more England will never, never be free

It would be ok if it was the 70s, when there was Nothing gay about wrestling, it would be Ok if it was the 70s before pedophilia was invented It would be ok if it was the 70s When PC meant your local bobby Who had strange idea of a hobby - beating up blacks and dissenters; It would be ok if only it was still the 70s But it’s not cos it’s not, so what else have you got? It would be ok if it was the 70s When gays could only be thespians It would be ok if it was the 70s When all feminists were lesbians It would be ok if it was the 70s When casual racism was encouraged, A whole nation flourished, hate Nourished by The Comedians It would be ok if only it was still the 70s But it’s not cos it’s not, and OK’s not good enough - when Posh boys in their ivory towers Gold-lined pockets of power Hibernating, iron ladies in waiting to Mislead the ill-educated And while they wait, they sing … “The South can never rise again, ’cos it Stayed on moral high ground, the South can not despise again, it Never stopped first time around” It would be ok if it was the 70s When smoking didn’t yet cause cancer It would be ok if it was the 70s, looking Down on Oop North was the done thing It would be ok if it was the 70s When loony lefties, communists, Terrorists, trade unionists were one and the same thing It would be ok if only it was still the 70s - when the Past is all you’ve got can you be really sure it’s not? Cos Meanwhile in Barratt Home counties They just took a very long tea break Now they patiently wait for conditions to far right themselves Again; again they sing … “The South can never rise again, it Never fell from moral high ground South can not despise again, it Never stopped last time, the South can never rise again, it Never fell from moral high ground, the South can not despise again, it Never stopped first time around.”

Levenson, Press Inspector versus Posh private school sector, oh You could always see Who the winner would be But suddenly cheers are stopping from Fleet Street out to Wapping, Could this really be A small victory? Giant-killing happens all the time, in Football matches and in pantomimes, in Fairy tales and nursery rhymes Whichever this is, I don’t much mind …. Grease-lipped lords of poshness with their Strange idea of justice thought they had carte blanche, They couldn’t be stopped Kingdom of proctologists, Royalist apologists Never thought I’d see Them brought to their knees CHORUS (spoken word) Or Maybe I’m just too dumb To fully understand And this is just another of your Nothing slights of hand But even if it is, please let me have just this Cos in this shabby land Even I need positives ... Revolution isn’t kicking off No such thing as an underdog; still any any victory for privacy is good to see, go kill giants

Poor David Cameron, lies awake in his bed Tossing and turning, mind’s eye is burning, brains keep on churning Paddington jim-jams are soaking with sweat Turns to his wife but Sam’s out like a light - he trembles with fright - Wraps himself tightly in Chelsea bedspread Creak on the stairs, he shouldn’t be scared, it’s just a nightmare A bloodbath of anger and righteous revenge, but what if this nightmare won’t ever end? And this is what Dave dreamt Theresa May, Theresa May, killed off In the most apt way Locked up in close quarters with those she’s had deported Jack’s shadowing the cabinet With razor wire and bayonet Tabloids are all taken aback Broadsheets don’t know how to react, so they just write “Robert Stack meets Spring-Heeled Jack To soundtrack of Shakatak” Knight him, hang him, scream the headlines Doubt don’t sit well with press deadlines Poor Eric Pickles, Eric Pickles, Smashed with Hammer, slashed with sickle Plumped up Civil servant Soup kitchen serving Terrorist? Freedom fighter? Killer, Community pillar? Tabloids are all taken aback Broadsheets don’t know how to react - and so they write CHORUS PM’s question time, Jack drowns them in quicklime Predators made victims - What court would convict him?

When it Comes to immigration, the EU, he don’t much mind - cos he’s only voting UKIP so he can smoke inside Cos They can’t come here, steal our jobs when there’s no jobs to steal Occupy the bigots, act like we care how they feel Barrage of Farage is just storm in a teacup, Evoking the Blitz for mild case of the hiccoughs Well, She wants to adopt some kids from East European Nation Whilst she’s voting for a party that wants to repatriate ‘em (they really bloody hate’em!) We’ve Fucked it up so royally, without the EU’s help Don’t need to look abroad for cause of national ill health Farage’s farrago was shit from the get-go but Still it keeps spreading like Starbucks or Tescos Spite supernova, From Perthshire to dover Peddling anger from Cambridge to bangor Hate Casanova from Tryll to Andover He ill-informed loiters round Watford Gap goiter This godawful blunderland, this Tear-Me-Asunderland A beautiful mess, a mess nonetheless

You think you’ve got charisma? Well, so did Adolf Hitler – And as his story tells us, that didn’t work out well, love! The ease with which the Germans were turned is most disturbing - They’re not a stupid people, they soon turned on his mad evil (take the hint) Listening to your country never been PM requirement But don’t forget dictators rarely reach retirement not advocating murder, or social disorder; As a knee-jerk liberal, I’m just trying to warn ya No right-thinking person would wish another dead but Your policies prove not all us are right in the head. (Heads up, Dave!) They’ve put the popemobile in Exchange and Mart Not saying that you need it but it would be a start. Been stealing from the poor so there’s plenty in the coffers So it’s worth considering putting in an offer Bigots often ask me if I hate this country Why don’t I move to Russia? The answer is quite easy - I don’t move to Russia, cos There is just no need, see, Not when our government acts just like they are the KGB.

Twenty Twelve summer, our pub on the corner The landlords renamed it, Cashed in on Olympics they’d claimed it enabled Forgotten disabled And coincidentally, made heaps of guilt money Comes to the crunch, we’re sat eating pub lunch, Blackberries on tables, there’s none in the pies, oh We annexed our local from all the poor locals With military fervour, we read the Observer ... Now that it’s winter The swimmers and sprinters Gone home. Visibility’s an Underfed memory ‘Cos when it comes to the crunch, we’re sat eating pub lunch, took all of six months for the games to be done for. We’ve Annexed our boozer, drove out the poor losers True legacy remains, a pub with dumb name - “the wheelchair basketballer” “The wheelchair basketballer” x2 BBC Sports Lack of Personality of the Year Turn over the channel, no new leaf will appear “The wheelchair basketballer” x2 Mine’s a pint of Kir …

Ban Xmas, ban theatre, but don’t you touch the media! Ban drinking, horse-racing, repeal that Sunday trading; Crown prince of Whitehall, the clown prince of shortfall Ban make-up, ban football, let this be your downfall Our blue square premier league Can’t hold a man like he Big fish bobs round infinity pool Staring wistfully out to sea sell welfare, sell healthcare, the hungry and the threadbare Distract from destruction, sell anti-immigration Crown prince of Whitehall, the clown prince of shortfall In chaos, in freefall, still it’s not your downfall Our blue square premier league Can’t hold a man like he Big fish bobs round infinity pool Staring wistfully out to sea Or at least stares to where He thinks the sea might be x2 Cameron Lord Protector And Witchfinder General Craving better weather He’s invading Senegal

This country has no national dish Unless you’re counting puddings Ploughman’s lunch and fish and chips Are hardly stuff of legend. The tuck shop’s running out of sweets The streets awash with horsemeat We need to give our nation treats - No national pride? We’ll force it! Here comes R-factor, for our country’s good, To find English people a new Robin Hood - But the people say ... “Steal from the rich, yes, we’ve got that bit; But give to the poor? Well, what the fuck for? Paying it forward? That’s just hippy crap in This currency climate, best to hold it all back” Out of date and out of place, their glory days well over Our national icons are in need Of an image make-over Need someone to make a stand In this divisive crisis Who knew the only folk to trust were selling advertising? Here comes G-factor on Channel More Four To find English People a brand-new St. George But the people say … “It sounds a bit scary to be killing a dragon so Let’s say that we did, and go to local tavern Instead, to quaff down some bubbling flagons Of mead. Someone else will win G factor soon.” Here comes A-factor in search of an Actor With a big enough beard to play at King Arthur. “Explain this again, I go wait by a lake for a Wet woman with sword - that’s all power will take? Where do I sign up?”

King Jimmy of Saville, he never heard gavel, no, Not in his lifetime, despite all of his foul crimes. Sir Tony of Blairtown, let all us kids down, Enjoys Arab Springtime despite all his vile war crimes; But Poor Gary Glitter has right to be bitter; He’s done the hard time, for his shocking crimes, his Number one hits never fiddled with kids, but Still they’ve been vanished, to phantom zone been banished. Stalinist revision by the Lords of Eurovision means You’ll never get to hear the real yesteryear, I fear. Lord Jimmy of Saville, his knees pocked with gravel Where he went down on the Devil for his freedom Whilst we take hammerin’ from Earl Dave of Cameron, He’s nobbled our kneecaps through shared gravel-based mishap. CHORUS BBC, so cowardly, scared Stiff of Mastiff Tories who Bark the loudest, deftless Hefties Calling them all paedo-lefties Saint Michael of Jackson, the saccharine version Monster while living, in death gets a revision King Jimmy of Saville avoided both barrels By cunningly dying, the man sure had good timing CHORUS But masonic masterplan? that’s eso- teric marzipan. Cos with an Iron fist we’re ruled by The Brotherhood of Man ...