[Intro - Low, thumping acoustic bass notes on guitar] [Verse One] He’s lurking by the bins in a grey tracksuit top Looking like a man who’s been banned from every shop He’s got a little baggie of something green and dry With a twitch in his cheek and a squint in his eye (It’s just grass!) He says "This is the business, it’s the St. Austell gold" But it looks like the stuff that’s been growing on mould He’s trying to act street in a town full of hills While he’s struggling to pay off his electricity bills One, Two, Three... the rhythm is a mess Just like his life and his choice of dress! [Chorus] He’s the St. Austell king of the garden-shed weed! Planting the seeds of a desperate need! (It’s clover, mate!) He’s selling lawn clippings to the kids at the park While he’s terrified of shadows and he’s scared of the dark! He’s a botanical failure, a horticultural joke The biggest embarrassment to the Cornish folk! [Verse Two] [Fast, jerky rhythm] Forty Two pounds for a bag of old moss He’s trying to be a gangsta, he’s trying to be a boss But he’s living with his nan and he’s sleeping on a rug He’s the least intimidating little West Country thug (Proper wet!) He tried to roll a blunt but he accidentally coughed And blew his entire stock right up into the loft Five Hundred and Fifty Five grams of pure shite He’s the laughing stock of the local pub tonight Ninety Nine problems and his nan is the main one He’s a "roadman" who’s never even seen a water gun! [Outro] [Descending guitar scale] Put the mower away, you absolute tool! You’re the laughing stock of the secondary school! Thirteen, Twelve, Eleven, Ten! Don’t let me see your face in the gardens again! [Sound of a lawn mower starting] Is that a Flymo, Jory?
