She died with her telly on. 87 and confused.
There's not enough hospital beds because all the money's been used
On the end of the century party preparations
And they reckon that the last thing she saw in her life was
Sting singing on the roof of the Barbican
Like a game-bird reserve short on pheasants,
Weavers cottages devoid of tenants,
A market town that lacks quintessence,
That's Chatteris without your presence
We've just been performing a guerilla gig
In the middle of another group's guerilla gig
Well, surely that's the ultimate guerilla gig
But still they cried like girls
I could have put my head in a bucketful of porridge
And moaned about the hospital parking scheme.
I would've saved 14 pounds that I just splashed out on your second album,
For that's what it's akin to
And furthermore
You've got a shit arm
And that's a bad tattoo
There's not enough hospital beds because all the money's been used
On the end of the century party preparations
And they reckon that the last thing she saw in her life was
Sting singing on the roof of the Barbican
Like a game-bird reserve short on pheasants,
Weavers cottages devoid of tenants,
A market town that lacks quintessence,
That's Chatteris without your presence
We've just been performing a guerilla gig
In the middle of another group's guerilla gig
Well, surely that's the ultimate guerilla gig
But still they cried like girls
I could have put my head in a bucketful of porridge
And moaned about the hospital parking scheme.
I would've saved 14 pounds that I just splashed out on your second album,
For that's what it's akin to
And furthermore
You've got a shit arm
And that's a bad tattoo




)