J. Whitney R. Chapman What the hell bad eggs don't smell When glossed with sleek perfume So whose to cry, politicians' lie When you know damn well they do. CHORUS Maybe they're hung up down next stop They'll maybe, maybe turn around Cos they're every other way than I want them to be. Is it so bad when men turn bad To rob and steal from friends While men who count large bank account Make wards for their own ends. Repeat CHORUS The grossest spew of world war two Turns some men inside out But make them ride with coal black hides They're not so pure throughout. Repeat CHORUS