Feeling low, the party's on the radio, should be at work, but Sodom till tomorrow. Think I'll bip round to the bird's house 'cos I've heard that her mum's away. I'll raid the neighbor's garden, present her with a nice bouquet. She'll be so pleased, we'll go upstairs, and up and down on the eiderdown. 'Til six, 'til the night time. The right time. Night time's the best time. I'm expected in the shed, got BA tattooed on his head. They call him Flash, his real name's Fred, he's listening. But the girls, they desire him as he rips at their barricades; and boys, they admire him as he skips with his razor blade. Carves the bible on your rival. Takes your money, leaves you crumbled on the floor. It's his hobby. He's having fun, his hobby - having fun. (Fun fun fun, till Daddy takes the T-Bird away.) A place where no one goes, a sparkling crimson channel flows. A victim lies with all his clothes disheveled. Tries to rest on an elbow, grits his teeth as he feels the pain. A reflection in a puddle winces "cheese!" from its inner drain. Then shadows gather round him, feel his pulse, give him blanket for the night. He'll be alright, through the night. Sleep with the shadows.
Lyrics submitted by Mellow_Harsher