It is bastard biz
Slim shirt, belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
Darts player, tungsten delivery phantom on the treble sixty
Barton's Red Baron, hey, Duggee, a-woof
Monkey coloured, round, all these shapes
A-woof, it's really dated and yet you still court it
Make out, you're knowledgeable
You still rate it airfix dickheads
You snap-on tools who never grow
Shelling out fifteen-hundred pounds to see an has-been
Who can't even do three gigs in one go, what's that?
Wheel that on a three-sixty
You music magazines lying to us just to stay in print
Well, I want a free frisbee, plugging a shit pic
So you can still parade around Arnos Grove in your get-up
Name-dropping '90s pricks
Worse
It's getting shitter
And no amount of talking about
Something that you'll never do anything about
Is gonna make it better
Yeah, yeah, yeah
I got a wonky back inspector Gadget in deep sea batter
'80s cafè, Scampi champ, alright chap, Bostom stump
You fall off, splatter beef jerky
After hours in the farm shop, restaurant bar
Keys in a bowl murky, legs 11
Hundred percent dolphin-friendly nets in Caravan Kitchen Heaven
We ain't got a lot
And I don't want God's plan
Is it 25 pound a month for the handset
And free calls to the promised land?
We ain't got a lot
And I don't want God's plan
Is it 25 pound a month for the handset
Free calls to the promised land?
I don't want God's plan
Is it 25 pound a month
And free calls to the promised land?
♪
It is bastard biz
Slim shirt, belly pops out
They call me Big Burt
Belly pops out, they call me Big Burt
Belly pops out, they call me Big Burt
(They call me Big Burt)