Warhorse

Stop telling me to tighten my belt, there’s nothing left to tighten
No squeeze. No honey pot. There’s nothing lying under the bed
And now you’re laughing, at me, as my sides are splitting
Red raw laughing, as my sides are splitting, you’re spitting

Those rusting fossils, sweating piglets, stinking broken relics
Comfy seats, dirty sheets and repeated bleats
You have the right to be disgusted
To shun this pageantry
Recognise your enemy, lеt them rot - the lot - let thеm fucking rot

This is war, horse

There’s Albion’s spoilt children, aching for fame, yet again
They’re fucking on the cliffs of Dover, on that post war hangover
And we bask in witless wonder
All this historic racist plunder
And we sit. And we sit. Roll over. Now sit
Entitled dribbling disasters, yet they’re not your fucking masters
You are not here for their entertainment
You are not here to make them money
Do not beg, do not bow, do not curtsey
Do not beg, do not bow, do not curtsey

As this means war, horse

Stop telling me to tighten my belt
Stop telling me to wash my mouth, out
Stop telling me you’re telling the truth
Stop telling me we’re in it together
Stop telling me he did his best
Stop telling me we’re levelling up
Stop telling me to get over it
Stop telling me! stop telling me!