Scratch one more to the body count,
|
Another dead kid you don¡¯t care about.
|
Forget what the papers read,
|
Safe in your house while another kid bleeds.
|
Everyone of us to blame,
|
For each capital teen who died in vain.
|
We are fucking worse if not the same,
|
We read the filth and forget the names.
|
|
No money for a funeral.
|
¡®til you sell your story out to the world.
|
Hoods up, knifes out,
|
¡°protect ya neck¡±
|
with no remorse and no respect.
|
And for every teen who lost their life
|
Hung on the end of a kitchen knife
|
We will carve this cross into your chest
|
to remind you of this fucking mess.
|
|
Kitchen knifes and the silent kill.
|
Gun shots start the rumour mill.
|
Lets take this back to the old school
|
Live out our lives by the Queensberry rules.
|
Two fists clenched tight
|
Two fucking wrong-uns who both think there¡¯re right.
|
The bigger they are
|
The harder they fucking fall
|
|
No money for a funeral.
|
¡®til you sell your story to the rest of the world
|
hoods up Knifes out,
|
¡°protects you neck¡±.
|
No remorse and no respect.
|
And for every teen who lost there life
|
Hung on the end of a kitchen knife
|
We will carve a cross into your chest,
|
To remind you of the fucking mess.
|
|
The union jack has bled away.
|
Its black and white and its fucking grey.
|
The cells are cold,
|
The streets are the same,
|
Its been a dead summer and were praying for rain.
|
Your heart of gold is dead and cold,
|
and you wonder when your dreams got old.
|
Walk yourselves down to the Thames,
|
And throw you knifes in so that this can end.
|
|
-----------------
|
Queensberry Rules
|
| Gallows |
