 ((http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Justin Currie Justin Currie))
We're weekend smokers, part-time users
Said to possess a sick sense of humour
We slap ourselves in the face then fall asleep
We're blood brothers, bent on a ruckus
Kerb-crawling for someone to love us
With the buckle wet and a clean set of polythene sheets
We're big thinkers, children of greatness
Polished speakers, host to the famous
Bulldog grit, pussy-whipped and wagging our tails
We're clean players, honourable losers
Cradle-rocking computer abusers
Driven on by a paranoid fear of shame
So rich we spit through mouthfuls of mother-of-pearl
Great Britain sits like a tick on the skin on the world
We're channel-swimmers, colony-baggers
Handbag-snatchers with impeccable manners
Whatever the weather we're ready to sail again
We love music, the dumber the better
Dribble Rule Britannia like chronic bed-wetters
As waxwork rock groups melt down memory lane
The flags let rip and the stiff upper lips all curl
Great Britain sits like a tick on the skin on the world
We're sensitive lovers, passionate kissers
And, once we get drunk enough, brutal and vicious
We're destiny's men; bet the rest of them envy our souls
We're home-owners, landlords of corridors
Inmates on tax breaks, hemmed in by fire doors
By night we binge, by day we cringe in our holes
We're spymasters, souls of discretion
We know how attack makes a great first impression
Quick to defend any friend, quick to charge them a fee
We're trophy-winners, grocers par excellence
Slick in the kitchen and sick in the restaurant
Stagger and fight through a Saturday night, then we're free
So rich we spit through mouthfuls of mother-of-pearl
Great Britain sits like a tick on the skin on the world
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