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If your conscience fails you we can be your guide |
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The runaway train will take you for a ride |
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It's an '88 special with automatic doors |
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Johnny Guitar, tell 'em where it goes |
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Down the tracks like a thunderstorm |
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past the house where I was born |
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Guaranteed and bona fide, a genuine white knuckle ride |
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We've got smackheads, crackheads, pensioners, pimps, |
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anonymous alcoholics looking for a drink |
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So put your feet up, enjoy the show |
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Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill let's go |
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We've got yardies, steamers, parasitic cops |
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Bostik boys playing chicken in the box, |
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jackpot crackpots, Summerstown blues |
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nineteen nervous wrecking crews |
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Mad alsations, pit-bull terrorists, |
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hammerheaded loan sharks trying out for Jaws 6 |
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BMX bandits breaking all the windows, |
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you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows |
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Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill |
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the driver's dressed in black |
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He's dead on the dead man's handle |
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and we ain't coming back |
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We're going down the tracks and off the page |
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past the dole, The Silver Blades |
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Through the flats to the seventh floor |
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along the walkway to your front door |
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Up the staircase, down the hall |
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where daddy bangs you against the wall |
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and beats your brains in with a tablespoon |
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AWOPBOPALOOBOPALOPBAMBOOM ! |
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Calling all cars, calling all cars |
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check all the pubs and raid all the bars |
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Bring in the rapists, the muggers and thieves |
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make it safe for the OAP's |
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House the homeless boys and girls |
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save the children, feed the world |
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Then put your feet up, mind the gap |
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and take it right back to the track Fruit Bat |
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Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill |
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the driver's dressed in black |
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He's dead on the dead man's handle |
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and we ain't coming back |
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We're going down the tracks and on ahead |
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where skins and angels fear to tread |
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Up the chimneys, down the drains |
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through the eyes of hurricanes |
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From the brothels of Streatham, |
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to the taking of Peckham |
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fun, fun, fun, |
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Here we come! |