Blog Maggot - Sleaford Mods

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Blog maggot m-m-m-mm-mm

Blog maggot m-m-m-mm-mm

Celebrities are flocking

My real mates are dropping

The English way:

If you look like y’winning they fuck ya mate

Winning what?

I got a fruit machine wi' chewy on the slot

I’m knocking back nicotine beans

My fingertips tingle — official… or non-official

I just wanna send the fucking email

Blog maggot, YouTube twat

If I ever meet the cunt I’ll bite his fucking head flat

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Blog maggot m-m-m-mm-mm

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Blog maggot

This is why the force is strong with a Tory

No blonde moments, no-ones shite

We are just tricked into dislike

Headcase men — dead men — war

Ed Sheeran selling fast — best album marketing farce

On You

We are John Rocha — we are all John Rocha

Used to be fendi trendy — faintly trendy

Now nobody gives a tosser

All of this death — everyone’s deaf — all of the death

William S. Burroughs can tell him Seth

It’s all this death, who ever

On your Facebook feed poster

Philosophical wanker

All this death

We are all half-cut — half-dead — hard to swallow

Night trainers on me

I can’t sing about anarchy in all this death

You, multiple images, magazine men

I’m buff like a tent, smoking a peg men

Guts like a stink pipe sink pipe

Bits of bean juice washing-up sleep then death

All this death

All this death

All this death

All this fucking death

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Promenade voting jacket

Silver bullet polo hacket

Golden stitch don’t ya skinnage

No, I’m minted mate

Geronimo, tally-ho, bombs away Derek

Don’t sound quite the same

They’ve all got shit Eighties mahogany wood names

Like fat cigars in sunburnt boxes

Lord Loxley Cobhead in Union Jack wasits

Robin Thicke — thick as fuck

The trendy sex heads are all thick as fuck

That cunt with the big hat

He’s as thick as fuck

That cunt who gave drugs up

But still writes tunes that celebrate 'em

He’s as thick as fuck

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People can do what they want — no they can’t

Y’can’t keep kissing that cunt behind reception

It’s work you twat

And not a flashy love bite convention

Moaning like a poor cunt

Like a shriveled bitter wanker

A stomach full of Gold Blend trousers

Like Jo Fucking Fox’s

New 30 mile speed limit enforce

Speed camera pensioners on Harleys, yeah course

Y’reap the Tudor piglets of picturesque hamlets

Park outside some cunt’s house

Toggy pocket

He’s the gaffer

Selwyn Froggitt

I flog parrots to them Grantham lads

Do a little Leonard one-skinner

It’s not that y’can handle it

It’s just that you don’t want to fucking talk about it

Pepper on chips

I can yam five filet of fish easy

The idea is you gotta go around the bend

And not into it

Key markets, Fine fare, Fine trade

Chris Martin nightmare

Nightmare n-n-n-nn-nn

Nightmare n-n-n-nn-nn

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Blog maggot