paroles de chanson Fat Tax - Sleaford Mods

Fat tax, fat tax
Fat tax, fat tax

Where's it going? The signs ensnare
Stain the road to nowhere, on a fucking shit train
Fax tax on tap
They're gonna pin you down on the fucking fat map
No more shreddies, speed trap
Pulling ya over and checking ya fat
And shat, strange twat

The support had been playing for nearly two hours, they're crap
All joke
I spent too fucking long around the shit bag of coke
And railed up to the fence, rattlin'
Main the pain, the chest is the shit habits name
Autoban, straight up and down lanes

Fat tax, fat tax
Fat tax, fat tax

It's a fucking guide dog, mate
We crushed the red tomato with that chalkman cake
Snore, cat-burglar, break into your house
Eyes wide shut like maneater
But without the blood and daft paintings
Weird shit with horns

Two days up a tree perfect family
Soundtrack ya life, one charger fits the lot
The queue for the pastries is always laced with no one
If I find out who the fuck you are, I'll spread you in terror from my fucking terra jar
And I'll rob yo' shop like I did in the past

I don't fucking care about respect, you twat
Like some lad twat, like a sad shop cunt lacing up trainers
No snorters, no starters, no life for you, fat little cunt
Blend into the shadows, into the bosom of the Broadmarsh
Walk away, it's so plain, it's tense
The fresh prince of bell end

Fat tax, fat tax
Fat tax, fat tax
Bop, bop, bop, bop

Pooh postman, the envelope of zest
The beast sleeps, but believe me it needs heads
Throw it in the microwave, express the mess
Signed, sealed and disgusting
Rustie Lee, breakfast telly, tutting
If I play another venue covered in stickers
Where everybody chain smokes, it's so no, no

Pixie fans in Frank Black land
Who's eaten all the pies, you fat punk cunt rocker
You alternative white chocolate mocha
Expert the pit, that is promotion
A sea of stickers, I don't care, images
Black and white punk stickers

Fat tax, fat tax