1. |
Gypowitch
04:42
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Gypowitch
Now there’s the lady, you may have seen her, walking around town,
You’re bound to find her, loitering on street corners nicking bikes that she’s found,
She’s often carrying carrier bags, full of booze fags and mags,
She’s often carrying carrier bags, full of booze fags and mags.
Now there’s this lady you may have heard her, lurking round Pershore, out and about,
Heard her squawking as she’s talking with a ghastly, raspy kinda shout,
Heard her shrieking as she’s speaking with a nasty, scratchy kinda shout,
What’s her name? What’s her game? What’s she all about?
One wonders whether her weathered, leathery face was every youthful at all,
It’s the Gypowitch,
Oh it’s the Gypowitch.
Wrinkled lips bordering a menancing grin,
A scattering of crooked teeth, standing within,
It’s the Gypowitch,
Oh it’s the Gypowitch.
I say she’s a witch but she can’t do any black magic,
She has no crystal ball or tarot cards,
She has no broomstick or feline companion…but she does look quite a lot like one.
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2. |
Grand National
04:50
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Grand National
Only fools and horses at Aintree today,
This ain’t just a little bit of horseplay,
There is big bucks, riding on this race,
There is big bucks, riding on this race.
Get a taste for fame, laced with lashings and pain,
Not disgrace my name or cease the flow of champagne.
A horse stumbles and tumbles to the ground, the toff grumbles,
He had money on that horse – at the Grand National.
Shot dead in the head point blank the toff scoffs,
No remorse – at the Grand National.
How many will pop it today?
Clip, clop, slip, pop,
Shot in the head where they lay,
From Aintree to the dogfood tray
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3. |
The Need for Change
03:59
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4. |
Barney's Prelude
01:04
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Nah mate.
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5. |
Big Barney's Waltz
04:22
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Big Barney’s Waltz
I run the streets I walk,
Swinbourne my moniker,
Been born of the street like my mother was a bitumen,
Slicker than crude,
Got a few slightly richer friends,
But I’m ditchin’ ‘em,
For the views of the nomad man.
Bruising and cruising,
When you ain’t got a crowd a crown don’t mean a thing,
Boozing and abusing,
Long live Big Barney,
Long live the tramp king.
And aloud people will sing,
When I’m slinging around and about,
Shot out to Shaun and the louts.
Gotta catch a can man, the boozy brews have run out,
Gotta catch a can man, a can of something ‘special’.
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6. |
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Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff
Don’t sweat it – forget it,
Don’t let it get you down,
If you regret – forget it,
Don’t let it don’t let it get you down.
Don’t sweat it – forget it,
Don’t give it a second thought,
If you regret it – forget it,
Don’t worry ‘cos life’s too short.
HEY!! YOU!!
Don’t sweat the small stuff.
HEY!! YOU!!
Don’t smoke the hard stuff.
When life leaves you hurdles leap over them,
Like Sally Gunnell, so don’t worry my friend,
Don’t fret or get upset,
Don’t sulk or frown,
Every moment’s a gift, so that should give you a lift,
We all end up in the ground
HEY!! YOU!!
Don’t sweat the small stuff.
HEY!! YOU!!
Don’t smoke the hard stuff.
Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.
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7. |
The Midwich Cuckoos
04:33
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The Midwich Cuckoos
I caught their gaze through the dark on night,
Their eyes met mine with a blaze of golden light,
They burnt in to my brain,
Scrabbled at my thoughts,
I felt unnameable pain.
Beware of their stare,
Of their glowing glare,
Of their golden pairs of eyes.
Beware of their stare,
Of their glowing glare,
They share the same mind
They’re the Midwich Cuckoos
Oh they’re the Midwich kids
Born to host mothers,
Each one like the others,
No one knows where they came from.
They dress in the same manner,
And look like doppelgangers,
Their fair hair is soft and fine,
They have silvery skin,
Their fingernails are thin,
And they’re a threat to all of mankind.
They’re the Midwich Cuckoos
Oh they’re the Midwich kids
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8. |
Stella Fella
06:12
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Stella Fella
I know a fella who knows a fella (What’s he called?)
I’ll tell yer…Stella Fella
He’s a hell of a fella,
He’s got a cellar full of Stella that he wants to sell yer (Who is he?)
Stella Fella.
16 Stellas for a tenner, he’s a hell of a fella,
He’s got a cellar full of Stella that he wants to sell yer,
Stella Fella.
If you like Stella you’ll be in your element,
He’s got a cellar full of Stella,
That’s stocked chock-a-block to the top,
With that maize, hops and barley crops pop.
Stella Fella
Long greasy locks cling to his skin,
He has a pale complexion,
And a gaunt, drawn and thin face,
Wearing jeans, ripped at the knees and the seams,
A stench of body odour seams to accompany him wherever he goes.
He comes out when it’s dark,
Dressed in black,
With a back pack packed with stacks of tack.
Fancy a drop of that maize, hops and barley crops pop? Stella fella.
He’s yer man, He’s a hell of a fella, he’s a real good fella now.
Oh he’s a derelict house dweller, Stella Fella.
Give him a bell, he’s a hell of a fella.
Oh he’s a black market lager seller, Stella Fella
Oh he’s a hell of a fella, he’s a real good fella now.
He’s got a cellar full of Stella, Stella Fella.
Say you know Tone – he’ll give you mate’s rates.
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Mleko Brighton, UK
Mleko is the musical output of an overweight and undernourished musician based in Brighton.
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