the dirty thirty
the naughty forty
the shifty fifty
the filthy five
zips, clips, whips and chains
wait for you to arrive
bike boys by the busload
stupid how they strut
smoking woodbines till they’re banjoed
and smirk at the swedish smut
life on the straight and narrow path
drives you off your nut
by day you are psychopath
by night you’re a psycle slut

on a BSA with two bald tires
you drove a million miles
you cut your hair with rusty pliers
and you suffer with the pillion piles
built in obsolescence
and travel in your guts
you won't reach adolescence
slow down psycle sluts

motorcycle mike
wants to buy a tank
only twenty-nine years old
and he’s learning how to wank
yesterday he was in the groove
today he’s in a rut
my how the moments move
brut fun psycle sluts
he cacks on your originals
he peepees on his boots
he makes love like a footballer
he dribbles before he shoots
the goings on at the gang-bang ball
made the citizens tut-tut-tut
but what do you care: piss all
you tell ’em psycle sluts

your boyfriend burned his jacket
his ticket expired
his tyres are knackered
and his knackers are tired
tell your tale to the gutter press
get paid to peddle smut
now you’ve ridden the road of excess
leading to the psycle sluts

or you can dine and whine on stuff
that’s bound to give you boils
hot dogs direct from cruft’s
done in diesel oil
or the burger joint around the bend
where the meals are fast and skimpy
for you that’s how the world could end
not with a bang but a wimpy