Sleaford Mods - Bronx In A Six lyrics

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Sleaford Mods - Bronx In A Six lyrics

Bronx in six Bronx in six He never gave any refunds to his mates Now he wonders why he sits in big house all on his own With all his plastic and nice painted plates Bronx in a six, let's do a one skinner, you ten bob Laughing me head off at the old cows That grazed on gra** from the boom It soon turned its jet on ya face and boom Burnt you Puff Daddy, it maced ya ba*tards Good, I f**in' laugh like f** at ya wannabe labels Shoots on location Cut blokes in stables, ra, ra, ra All ya Chiney wine tasters die in boxes like the rest of us wasters ba*tard, I f**ing tie ya veins 'round ya Vans limited edition Stitched tongues, Bond Street like the Von Bondies He got slapped up right, I wouldn't f** about with Jack White You're a jammy slug, missed the salt A twat with nine lives You're a lucky little tit cake Die, die, die Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks? Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks? I couldn't give a f**ing sh** what you think about me, c*nt What ya saying now where's ya wife? Ya kids? Ya house? You ain't got none, you silly billy All gone quiet on the wa*ker front Gary Cooper's on the clue 'cause he stuck to his guns Radio edit, oh it's so nice Lauren Laverne keeps playing "Tumbling Dice" Just like you with ya Maharishi shoulder bag Walking the strip like you f**ing own the path You wonder why you got no mates? You pretend to be proud of your own culture Whilst simultaneously not giving two f**s about your own culture What culture? f** culture The blueprint for all control On the dole, money monk, the monastery's faint flicks of reference Paint a vague idea, a pound in the fruity f** lolly on that scale, you c*nt, ya mugged The money monks saying its praise on bank books Bronx in a six A single skinner how’s tricks Bronx in a six A single skinner how’s tricks I knocked ya sh** vase over one night I think you was boring women, you slag off about some buying trip to Hanover, alright Lobbing out the posh nuts and f**ing weird fruit as some appetizer Clean white tiles, a view to the garden, a room with a poo I nicked all ya takings and ya f**ing mate's coke too Bringing women 'round then bragging about the conquest With ya pot belly Helmut Lang white vest Autumn, winter 2002 mind fest Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks? Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks? Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks? Bronx in a six A single skinner, how’s tricks?