Celebrate your troubles with unsavoury folk Breathing in the misery and blowing out the smoke Blackjack skulduggery, some fingers in the till But no one leaves The Duke until they've drank their fill The barman keeps a Stanley on the inside of his sleeve He spits when he talks, he's got that Manchester wheeze Telling tales of when he cut a cockney boy in blue All the while I've got my bloodshot eye on you, you cunt
There sits a grand piano in a chamber of his head He is the tortured pianist, his fingers have become a fist Sat swaying at the ivories, his bloody thumbs have stained the keys And in the wood he scratches his name...
We are the chosen lads, the ones who quarrelled with our dads The ones who wrote down all our fears, oh it's the spanner in your works And the spider in your ceiling, it's the job without the perks and that ever sinking feeling When we hear that blackbird sing.
