The telly is red hot
It's autumn in my loins
There's glamour in them hills, tonight
All my ingrown time
Grapes of solid pain
Feed me to the door, again

Trying to hitch a ride
On a tinfoil deathstar
My baby's trying to hitch a ride
On a tinfoil deathstar

People make demands
It's hard to understand
Background hum at best, right now
Holding back the light
Put down your batter ram
Calm your shaking hands, tonight

Trying to hitch a ride
On a tinfoil deathstar
My baby's trying to hitch a ride
On a tinfoil deathstar

Is that David Clapson, wincing through the glass?
A deck of death white sanctions, firmly in his grasp
Type one, type one
It's a type one situation
Type one, type one
It's a type one situation