this disc concerns those those pouting prima-donnas
found within the swelling j. arthur ranks of the sexational psycle sluts
those nubile nihilists of the north circular
the lean leonine leatherette lovelies of the leeds intersection
luftwaffe angels locked in a pagan paradise
no cash
a passion for trash
the tough madonna whose cro-magnon face and crab nebular curves
haunt the highways of the UK, whose harsh credo captures the collective libido like lariats
their lips pushed in a neon-arc of dodgems
delightfully disciplined, dumb but deluxe
deliciously deliciously deranged
twin-wheeled existentialists steeped in the sterile excrements of a doomed democracy, whose post-nietzschean sensibilities reject the bovine gregariousness of a senile oligarchy
whose god is below zero, whose hero is a dead boy
condemned to drift like forgotten sputniks in the fool's orbit bound for a victim's future
in the pleasure dromes and ersatz bodega bars of the free world
the mechanics of love grind like organs of iron to a standstill
hands behind your backs
in a noxious gas of cheek to cheek totalitarianism
hail the psycle sluts
go go the gland gringos
for the gonad a-go-go age of compulsory cunnilingusa
part two...
the dirty thirty
the naughty forty
the shifty fifty
the filthy five
zips, clips, whips and chains
wait for you to arrive
hell's angels by the busload
stoned stupid, how they strut
smoked woodbines till they're banjoed
and smirk at the swedish smut
life on the straight and narrow path
drives you off your nut
by day you are psycopath
by night you're a psycle slut
on a bsa with two bald tires
you drove a million miles
you cut your hair with rusty pliers
and you suffer with the pillion piles
you got built in obsolescence
oh you got guts
but you don't reach adolescence
slow down psycle sluts
motor cycle michael
wants to buy a tank
only twenty-nine years old
and he's learning how to wank
yesterday he was in the groove
today he's in a rut
my how the moments move
brut fun psycle sluts
he cacks on your originals
he peepees on his boots
he makes love like a footballer
he dribbles before he shoots
the goings on at the gang-bang ball
made the citizen's tut-tut-tut
but, what do you care, piss all
you tell 'em psycle sluts
now your boyfriend burned his jacket
ticket expired
tyres are knackered
knackers are tired
you can tell your tale to the gutter press
get paid to peddle smut
now you've ridden the road of excess
that leads to the psycle sluts
or you can dine and whine on stuff that's bound to give you boils
hot dogs direct from cruft's
done in diesel oil
or the burger joint around the bend
where the meals thank christ are skimpy
for you that's how the world could end
not with a bang but a wimpy.
LYRICS © JOHN COOPER CLARKE