Why pull on my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?
You know you're a liar from a South London shithole.
You put on your war paint and get ready to fight,
Jumping through hoops, but try as you might,
You fall asleep on the N55, after a night with Charles at some East London dive.
You'll never fit in with the cool guys in the band,
Eyes so wide with a cigarette in hand.
But why pull at my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?
You're a dirty liar from a South London shithole.
As you back comb your hair and pull up your tights,
You look like a hooker under a Dutch red light.
You play with love like an old violin, missing the notes and failing to sing.
You're a dirty liar with an SE postcode, looking for lovers to ruin and throw,
Throw into the drink from the Southwark bridge,
Looking for lovers to push from the ledge.
You're a two bob cunt, acts like a spiv, with nothing to offer, nothing to give.
You're a jumped up loser that bleeds us all dry, looking all lost with that glint in your eye.
So pull on your high heels and tug off that man, you're losing your mind, messing up your plans.
You've lost your mind and you have no plan.