[Intro] (Check it, check it) (One two, one two) (Is that guitar in seven-eight? You what? Safe.) (Watch the fingers on that fretboard, Terry, you’re making me dizzy) (Right, let’s get into the grime of it) [Verse 1] I’m leaning on a bollard by the chippy in the rain With a rhythm in my head and a localized pain I’m wearing nylon trousers from the year ninety-nine They haven’t seen a bubble or a drop of Turpentine The crotch is hanging lower than a badger’s nether-parts Collecting all the moisture from a thousand silent farts It’s a biohazard tapestry, a woven crusty dream I haven't washed these bad boys since the nineteen-ninety scheme There’s a stain from a kebab that’s achieved its own soul And a burn from a fagg that’s a perfect little hole (Look at the texture on that, son) (It’s basically an ecosystem now) [Pre-Chorus] The tapping on the wood matches the pulsing of my cyst I’m a lyrical Picasso with a technical twist Five-four, seven-eight, counting on my toes While the liquid in my tracksuit starts to seep into my hose [Chorus] Oh, the nylon is necrotic and the scent is getting ripe I’m smoking on a fragment of a copper plumbing pipe It’s math rock for the massive, it’s intricate and foul Listen to the feedback as the local foxes howl It’s technical, it’s medical, it’s absolutely grim I’m drowning in the polyester, can’t even bloody swim [Verse 2] I went to see the doctor and I sat upon the scales He said "Sir, your lower half belongs in the Prince of Wales" I said "Doctor, don't be cheeky, it’s a vintage patina" He threw up in a bucket and he called the registrar The math rock riff is peaking like the fever in my thigh There’s a mushroom growing sideways and it’s looking in my eye I’ve got three types of hepatitis previously unknown And a colony of maggots that I’ve legally outgrown (They’ve got their own council tax now) (Don't touch the hem, you'll lose a finger) [Bridge] (Guitar solo in alternating eleven-eight and thirteen-eight time) (Technical acoustic tapping intensifies) (Ad-lib: Watch that sharp fourth! Ooh, technical!) It’s an architectural marvel of a fungal infection Spread across the fabric in a rhythmic direction If I peel 'em off now, then the skin comes too I’m fused to the nylon like a cheap type of glue It’s a symphony of filth in a complex key The apex of the chav-hop geometry [Final Chorus] Oh, the nylon is necrotic and the scent is getting ripe I’m smoking on a fragment of a copper plumbing pipe It’s math rock for the massive, it’s intricate and foul Listen to the feedback as the local foxes howl It’s technical, it’s medical, it’s absolutely grim I’m drowning in the polyester, can’t even bloody swim [Outro] (Yeah, Newport mathematics) (Don't stand downwind of me, yeah?) (Seventy-two percent polyester, twenty-eight percent pure filth) (Check the time signature, it’s longer than my criminal record) (Safe) (Get us a pickled egg, Terry) (Proper technical, that) [End]
