Scratch one more to the body count,
another dead kid you don't care about.
Forget what the paper reads,
safe in your house while another kid bleeds.
Every one of us to blame.
for each capital teen who died in vain,
we are f*cking worse if not the same,
we read the filth but forget the names.
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
with no remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
Kitchen knives are the silent kill,
gun shots start the rumour mill.
Let's take this back to the old school,
live out our lives by the Queensberry rules.
Two fists clenched tight,
two f*cking wrong-uns who both think they're right.
The bigger they are
The harder they f*cking fall
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
No remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
The Union Jack has bled away.
It's black and white, and it's f*cking grey.
The cells are cold, the streets are the same,
it's been a dead summer, and we're 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 your knives in so that this can end.
Queensberry Rules Video (MV)
Performed By: Gallows
Written by: CHRISTOPHER FRANK CARTER, LAURENT BENJAMIN BARNARD, LEE PHILLIP BARRATT, STEPHEN WILLIAM RICHARD CARTER, STUART LESLIE GILI-ROSS
Gallows - Queensberry Rules Lyrics
We currently do not have these lyrics.
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
Scratch one more to the body count,
another dead kid you don't care about.
Forget what the paper reads,
safe in your house while another kid bleeds.
Every one of us to blame.
for each capital teen who died in vain,
we are f*cking worse if not the same,
we read the filth but forget the names.
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
with no remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
Kitchen knives are the silent kill,
gun shots start the rumour mill.
Let's take this back to the old school,
live out our lives by the Queensberry rules.
Two fists clenched tight,
two f*cking wrong-uns who both think they're right.
The bigger they are
The harder they f*cking fall
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
No remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
The Union Jack has bled away.
It's black and white, and it's f*cking grey.
The cells are cold, the streets are the same,
it's been a dead summer, and we're 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 your knives in so that this can end.
another dead kid you don't care about.
Forget what the paper reads,
safe in your house while another kid bleeds.
Every one of us to blame.
for each capital teen who died in vain,
we are f*cking worse if not the same,
we read the filth but forget the names.
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
with no remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
Kitchen knives are the silent kill,
gun shots start the rumour mill.
Let's take this back to the old school,
live out our lives by the Queensberry rules.
Two fists clenched tight,
two f*cking wrong-uns who both think they're right.
The bigger they are
The harder they f*cking fall
No money for a funeral
'till you sell your story out to the world.
Hoods up, knives out, "protect ya neck"
No remorse and no respect.
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 f*cking mess.
The Union Jack has bled away.
It's black and white, and it's f*cking grey.
The cells are cold, the streets are the same,
it's been a dead summer, and we're 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 your knives in so that this can end.
Writer: CHRISTOPHER FRANK CARTER, LAURENT BENJAMIN BARNARD, LEE PHILLIP BARRATT, STEPHEN WILLIAM RICHARD CARTER, STUART LESLIE GILI-ROSS
Copyright: Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
Copyright: Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.