Silence breaking into metre at seven forty-five
A game of squash with a rubber cosh is a bit like being alive

Walking in and out of rooms I've made it my career
I'm with it, white, well to do, what've I got to fear

Dance routines with chicken queens give me square-bashed feet
I like my music military, I like my women neat

I like my arians well defined, I'd like to make that clear
I'm white, with it, well to do, what've I got to fear

Soap suds, soap operas, hard lines, makes babies sick
Why can't life be run on the lines of an Edgar Lustgarden flick

An ideal home where raincoats appear and disappear
You think you're in the pink, you say you're in the clear

Missing persons passed me by, nothing to do with me
We don't see eye to eye, we get from A to B

I'm not an ex-spick, wop or jew, no dago nigger queer
I stay with it, white, well, wouldn't you, what have I got to fear

The hungry man needs a filthy bad mouth, practice in malarcky
I say how sorry I am and blame an indies darkey

From the man in the street, the man in the know, man in the iron mask
Need I answer your questions, need you fucking ask

You want someone to shit on you, please let me volunteer
I'm with it, white, well to do, what have I got to fear

And my voice echoes Nuremburg, every time I speak
I'm a curiosity, an atrocity, an antique

Watch it brother midnight, my blacklist makes it clear
If you're not with it, white, well to do, there's nothing for you here

LYRICS © JOHN COOPER CLARKE