Well the sun goes down on London townnBut it never sets on Oxford Street.nThose well spoken young mennAnd their bouncers,nAre trying to create a well dressed elite.nAnd all on private medicine,nTut tut.nnOnce inside join the rising tidenOf people who are so proud to get in.nWho think their face is their fortune,nBut under their skin their ugly as sin.nDidn't I meet you down at the clinic?nnAnd lots of boys with lots of poisonnThere right down to their hips,nThere're lots of pretty girls with suntansnAnd cold sores on their lips.nIs he your boyfriendnOr is he just here to hold your coat?nOr take it off, take it off, take it offnAnd let's find out.nnHalf passed tries with half cast eyes,nAre sucking in their cheeks until it hurts.nLots of twats in funny hats,nWith Karl Marx printed on their shirts.nWill tell you,nRevolution is just a state of mind.nOh this is Saturday nightnIn the West End alright,nAnd these people are not my kind.nnYou can cut the rug with this weeks drugnMake 'em all queue up to lick your assnWear a T-Shirt that saysnYoung, free and single,nOr a big badge that saysnI'm here, punk working class.nThe place is full of ear holes,nWho hang on every word nThat they speak.nWho believe what they writenAbout themselves,nWeek after week after week after weeknI don't know how they get away with it,nThey should be ashamed.nWhile if it's all so bloody beautifulnWell take it home and have it framed.