Spare me from the drunken heathen
Gumless 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
Haunting me with their refrain
What's it like?
What's it like?
What's it like to see a crowd?
What's it like to see a crowd?
Open not the main church entrance
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
