Psycle Sluts (Parts 1 & 2)

part one...

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.