Lyrics:

The Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass;
The cowboys take position in the bushes and the grass.
The squaw is with the corporal – she is tied against a tree.
She doesn’t mind the language; it’s the beatings she don’t need.
She lets loose all the horses when the corporal is asleep,
And he wakes to find the fire’s dead and an arrow’s in his ass,
And Davy Crockett rides around and says it’s cool for cats.
It’s cool for cats.
Cool for cats...
The Sweeney's doing ninety ‘cause they’ve got the word to go.
They get a gang of villans in a shed out by Heathrowe.
They’re countin’ out the fivers when the handcuffs lock again.
In and out in one swift with the numbers on their names.
It’s funny how the misses always looks the bleedin’ same.
And meanwhile, at the station, there’s a couple’a likely lads,
Who swear like how’s-your-father, and they’re very cool for cats.
They’re cool for cats.

To change the mood a little, I’ve been posing ‘round the pub.
I see in my reflection: I’m looking slightly rough.
I fancy this; I fancy that. I want a piece of flesh.
I give a little muscle and I spend a little cash
But all I get is bitter and a nasty little rash.
And by the time I’m sober, I’ve forgotten what I’ve had.
And everybody tells me that it’s cool to be a cat.
Cool for cats.
Cool for cats...

Shape up at the disco when I think I’ve got her pulled.
I ask her lots of questions as she hangs on to the wall.
I kiss her for the first time and then I take her home.
I’m invited in for coffee and I give the dog a bone.
She likes to go to discos, but she’s never on her own.
I said, “I’ll see you later,” and I give her some old chat,
But it’s not like that on the T.V. – when it’s cool for cats,
It’s cool for ca-a-a-ats.
Cool for cats...