Midnight Mass Murder

Spare me from the drunken heathen
Gormless bores in Superdry
Most unclean, and most unwelcome
Like a field of blighted rye

Where were you?
Where were you?
Where were you in mid-July?
Where were you in mid-July?

Though they boost the congregation
Joy turns swiftly into pain
Arms aloft, their fingers pointing
Taunting me with their refrain

What's it like?
What's it like?
What's it likе to see a crowd?
What's it like to see a crowd?

Open not the main church еntrance
Let them think it's been postponed
Every year the same old gobshites
Left to me I would have them stoned

Take your chips
Take your chips
Take your chips and fuck off home
Take your chips and fuck off home