Retro Rubbish Riot

Lyrics

[Verse 1] Billy Bunter, arsehole welded shut, Won’t drop a turd, let alone a quid—what a nut! Sucks soup through a straw made of old belly lint, Screams “FUCK OFF, MUZZIES!” while Savile’s face gets a squint. His wallet’s got cobwebs, his coins got green mould, He’d rim a dead badger for a halfpenny gold. Moans like a donkey with piles on its balls, While Gary Glitter’s mug grins down from the walls. [Chorus] Billy Tight-Arse, the cunt with no cash, Pipes clogged with shite and a face like cold rash. Pish-caked kecks flapping like a shit-flag at sea, Flogging his micro-cock to ’70s muff-beard TV! [Verse 2] Plumber? He’s a piss-artist, wrench made of spam, Unblocks your U-bend then shits in your jam. “Fifty quid call-out? Nah, love, cough up in fags— I’ll fix it with spit and a pair of old rags!” His overalls? A crusty Jackson Pollock of piss, Smells like a tramp’s knob dipped in vinegar bliss. Nightly he kneels at the altar of twat, Ugly old gronions with bushes like Matt Busby’s hat. [Chorus] Billy Tight-Arse, the cunt with no cash, Pipes clogged with shite and a face like cold rash. Pish-caked kecks flapping like a shit-flag at sea, Flogging his micro-cock to ’70s muff-beard TV! [Bridge] Midnight wank-fest, crusty sock on the floor, Pages stuck together like a glue-sniffing whore. “Oi, Bertha from Barnsley, open them thighs— Show us the hedge where the badger fuckin’ dies!” Spunks in his tea, stirs it with glee, “Protein, innit? Saves on the grocery!” [Verse 3] Pub tries a collection for soap and a scrub, He nicks the fiver, buys a kebab from the hub. Grease down his chin, mixed with yesterday’s jizz, “Waste not, want not—recycle the spizz!” His arsehole’s so tight it squeaks when he farts, A penny rolls out—buys himself three more tarts. [Final Chorus – Belt it like a drunk] BILLY TIGHT-ARSE, THE KING OF THE SKINT! SHITE ON HIS DICK AND A SAVILE MINT! PISS-STAINED Y-FRONTS, HAIRY CUNT DREAMS SO VILE, WANKED HIS LAST BELL-END OFF TO PAEDO SMILE! [Outro – Spoken over dying accordion] When he finally croaks, rigor mortis in his fist, Still clutching a coin and a photo of Glitter’s wrist. Bury the bastard in a matchbox, no fuss— Even the worms say, “Fuck that, he’s too tight for us!”