[Intro — spoken over piano] Oi, Worm Boy… back-row boy… bad little bastard. That’s me aight [foot stomp — band enters] [Verse 1 — loose swagger] Oi, Worm Boy… back-row boy… bad little bastard Air Max black where the rain and the playground splattered. Thumb in the mud, give a tug, pull a fat one up wriggling, wipe it once on my jumper, then bung it straight in while you’re snivelling. You lot gag when it curls on my tongue, that’s the difference, innit? You wouldn’t even hold one, I’ve had three in a minute. Tyson at breaktime, Undertaker when lunchtime comes, knuckles all scuffed from punching that wall just to see if it hurts. [pause] [slightly faster] Watched Saw II till midnight with school in the morning at eight, Dad’s Stella from the fridge in the shed — three proper mouthfuls, mate. Bitter means grown-up and grown-up means hard, everybody knows that stuff, so the worse that it tastes and the more that I hate it, the more I drink to look tough. [band drops out] Makes sense. [piano hit — fast] Played GTA round my cousin’s till ten, five stars and the sirens screaming, eighteen stamped on the front of the box, which only improves the meaning. If eighteen-year-olds are allowed that game and I’m playing the thing at nine— [spoken proudly] I’m doing eighteen-year-old stuff at half the age. Work it out. [Hook — playground chant] Worm Boy, Worm Boy, mud in my gums, dig by the goalpost, here they come, long ones folded and fat ones bitten, still keep wriggling while I keep grinnin’. Worm Boy, Worm Boy, dirt on my tongue, nine years old and I’ve only begun, six in a jam jar, four in my coat, biggest one first and it’s straight down my throat. [gang: WORM BOY!] [Verse 2 — building faster] Coffee for breakfast with four sugars stirred, Texas Chainsaw nicked off Jim, banged on Patel’s door and stayed on the step while everyone else legged it from him. Called Miss a dickhead under my breath, got detention — good, must’ve been bad, bad means hard, and hard means me, same basic principle as Dad. Dad’s got a skull tattoo up his arse, so I drew mine in biro precisely, mine washes off and his doesn’t, alright, but otherwise they match quite nicely. Skulls mean death and death means danger and danger means nobody messes with you— [clarinet stab] That’s three good reasons. And mathematics is true. [accelerating] If Mum says dangerous, Dad says leave it, Miss says Liam don’t touch that thing, then dangerous, banned and strictly forbidden are obviously where you begin. Beer tastes foul and worms taste worse and horror films make little kids hide, so drink it, eat it, watch it till midnight — that’s how you prove what you’ve got inside. [faster] Mud on the blazer and blood on the knee and a fat little worm in my pocket, skull on my finger, Monster in bag, if there’s something forbidden I’ve got it. You can keep your clean hands, early nights, nice manners, milk and your sensible terms— [DEAD STOP] [school bell] [slow, spoken] You know what separates the hard boys from everybody else? [pause] Everybody else looks at the worm. [beat] I eat it. [huge band hit] I’M LIAM FUCKING HARRIS. I EAT WORMS. [gang stomping] WORM BOY! WORM BOY! WORM BOY! [abrupt silence] [quietly, mouth full] …bit gritty, that one.
