Lyrics:

J. Whitney R. Chapman

What the hell bad eggs don't smell
When glossed with sleek perfume
So whose to cry, politicians' lie
When you know damn well they do.

CHORUS
Maybe they're hung up down next stop
They'll maybe, maybe turn around
Cos they're every other way than I want them to be.

Is it so sad when men turn bad
To rob and steal from friends
While men who count large bank account
Make wards for their own ends.

Repeat CHORUS

The grossest spew of world war two
Turns some men inside out
But make them ride with coal black hides
They're not so pure throughout.

Repeat CHORUS