We were gathered on a ThursdaynTo see the two out of fivenPitch your newly pressed pop recordnAnd the room was well insidenUntil the faithful got the bendsnAnd you never made amendsnFor the fielding error on the callnTo play your best known song of allnnI wanted to hate younThat was my first choicenI wanted to hate younUntil I heard your voicennMy, how rude, so impolitenAll this on your night of nightsnLittle man of smallish framenCrushed beneath your pop band namenYour table manners left behindnIn an Oxford flat at suppertimenYou came of range on center stagenNow sleep's not all your losingnnI wanted to hate younThat was my first choicenI wanted to hate younUntil I heard your voicenWhen I heard your voicenI could ignore your facenWhen I heard your voicenTom with a THnnLet the ass braynMake the punters paynnLet the ass braynMake the punters paynnLet the ass braynMake the punters paynnLet the ass braynMake the punters pay