It's 4am, he gurns, and he regurgitates The Sun.
An argument where both sides have already won.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
Glares at me, emboldened by the outcome of a vote.
His fingerprints say steelworks. my fingerprints say coal.
The careers advisor pretty much said, call centre or dole.
This lad and me, we're a mirror, but its well and truly shattered.
Council estate. Teesside. in a kitchen getting battered.
He says, Brexit's fine! Britain needs to knuckle down and persist.
And then he tells me I'm a snowflake and that food banks don't exist.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I'm a scare monger. a sore loser. Socialism's f*cked.
It dun't matter who's in charge, mate they're all a bunch of crooks.
Warm cans of Carling. stubble around us lips.
Fred Perry made the wardrobe. Shane Meadows wrote the script.
Worlds apart. polarised. his jaw slowly clenches.
Social civil war. as always, in the trenches.
He doesn't channel racism. Islam. immigration.
He talks of being left at sea, drowning in frustration.
Listen mate, i agree! a decade sick to death.
It's a salty dish to swallow when austerity's the chef.
Folk come and go. they decline to interject.
We're discussing politics they're happy getting wrecked.
A carousel of snide retorts from dehydrated throats.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
Boro Kitchen 4AM Video (MV)
Skint & Demoralised - Boro Kitchen 4AM Lyrics
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If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
It's 4am, he gurns, and he regurgitates The Sun.
An argument where both sides have already won.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
Glares at me, emboldened by the outcome of a vote.
His fingerprints say steelworks. my fingerprints say coal.
The careers advisor pretty much said, call centre or dole.
This lad and me, we're a mirror, but its well and truly shattered.
Council estate. Teesside. in a kitchen getting battered.
He says, Brexit's fine! Britain needs to knuckle down and persist.
And then he tells me I'm a snowflake and that food banks don't exist.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I'm a scare monger. a sore loser. Socialism's f*cked.
It dun't matter who's in charge, mate they're all a bunch of crooks.
Warm cans of Carling. stubble around us lips.
Fred Perry made the wardrobe. Shane Meadows wrote the script.
Worlds apart. polarised. his jaw slowly clenches.
Social civil war. as always, in the trenches.
He doesn't channel racism. Islam. immigration.
He talks of being left at sea, drowning in frustration.
Listen mate, i agree! a decade sick to death.
It's a salty dish to swallow when austerity's the chef.
Folk come and go. they decline to interject.
We're discussing politics they're happy getting wrecked.
A carousel of snide retorts from dehydrated throats.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
An argument where both sides have already won.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
Glares at me, emboldened by the outcome of a vote.
His fingerprints say steelworks. my fingerprints say coal.
The careers advisor pretty much said, call centre or dole.
This lad and me, we're a mirror, but its well and truly shattered.
Council estate. Teesside. in a kitchen getting battered.
He says, Brexit's fine! Britain needs to knuckle down and persist.
And then he tells me I'm a snowflake and that food banks don't exist.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I'm a scare monger. a sore loser. Socialism's f*cked.
It dun't matter who's in charge, mate they're all a bunch of crooks.
Warm cans of Carling. stubble around us lips.
Fred Perry made the wardrobe. Shane Meadows wrote the script.
Worlds apart. polarised. his jaw slowly clenches.
Social civil war. as always, in the trenches.
He doesn't channel racism. Islam. immigration.
He talks of being left at sea, drowning in frustration.
Listen mate, i agree! a decade sick to death.
It's a salty dish to swallow when austerity's the chef.
Folk come and go. they decline to interject.
We're discussing politics they're happy getting wrecked.
A carousel of snide retorts from dehydrated throats.
He rolls his eyes, and then a cigarette, and then a 5 note.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
I got no money in my pocket,
I got no control.
No-oh.
Writer: David Gledhill, Matthew Abbott
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management