Topic by Colin Combover in a Coma

Colin Combover in a Coma

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    Colin Combover in a Coma
    Colin Combover in a Coma

    Stuck in a dead-end town
    It drives me round the bend when I hear the same old sound

    Walking litter on their hand-held t~~~ transmitter
    That I can’t seem to drown

    Same old faces
    Sods in a pod
    From the same cold places

    Birthed by a youth in a phone booth
    Her Mother said she couldn’t get pregnant standing up
    But it wasn’t the truth

    Tortured and throttled
    And hit in the tooth

    Nurtured without Colostrum
    Suckled instead
    With a bottle of Rum

    Chasing their dreams through a pint glass
    A double malt
    It’s every c~~~s fault their working class

    I bet their only friend is the man in the mirror they despise

    The only thing these bell-ends attract
    Is flies

    Make sure you put your collar up
    When you say you’re goodbyes

    No-ones gonna care when you die
    Except the bar-keep who never sleeps
    And who is always bleary-eyed

    Another for the road
    One more malt

    Do you want salt
    On that massive chip
    As you take a sip
    Before you go back to your abode

    Four bare walls
    As you stare
    Whilst the kettle calls

    Tea and sympathy
    Without pity

    Is all you will see
    In this city

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