They prowl the streets on bicycles,
sniffing cocaine and eating sugar ricicles
they buy from wayside weeds in cracks,
wearing hoods and bobble-hats
They shoot their parents and steal their earnings,
they disregard daylight saving,
riding over flowerbeds and brand new paving
like rabid dogs or golliwogs,
switchblades and Black and Deckers in their pockets,
kidnapping old ladies and making them
put their fingers in electrical sockets
They make the Ayatollah look like Kenny Ball,
they harbour unnatural lusts for Britney Spears
and steal cups of tea from Summer Fayre refreshment stalls.
They wear their underwear two weeks running;
I don't know if they'e going or coming
Burn 'em, pan 'em,
slice 'em, fry 'em
before they fry you!
Bring back National Service,
put them in uniforms...
they make me feel nervous,
I wish they'd never been born.
One day on some glorious morn
I'll wake up and they'll all be gone
and the world will be safe again for you and me,
the safe, elitist, conservative few
who remember the Queen's birthday each year
and wish her good cheer!
They prowl he streets in centurian tanks,
chewing centipedes and wearing ankhs.
They don't have sensible names like Sheila or Frank
but call each other Spotzer, Dickhead, Cufflink Monster and Manc.
If there is a God in Heaven
pray he never reaches eleven,
pray he's older than fourteen
or anything awful inbetween...
They shouldn't be allowed,
they make be feel alarmed and cowed.
They breed in brand new Shopping Malls
and each one has a hundred pals
just as loud and dangerous as he or she.
Honestly, you wouldn't want to invite any of them in for tea!