[Intro]
I mean it's Sunday night
And nobody wants to come out, do they?
It's like, you're all too sleepy
Anyone? Bueller, anyone?
A pioneer

[Instrumental]

[Verse 1]
A mile and a half on a bus takes a long time
The odour of old prison food takes a long time to pass you by
Day upon day of this wandering gets you down
Nobody gives you a chance or a dollar in this old town

[Verse 2]
Hovering silence from you is a giveaway
Squalor and smoke's not your style
I don't like this place
We better go
Then I compare notes with your older sister
I am a lazy git, she is as pure as the cold driven snow

[Chorus]
What did you think of your time in the solitary cell of your mind?
There was noises, distractions from anything good
And the old prison food
Oh, please colour my life with the chaos of trouble
Anything's better than posh isolation
I missed the bus
You were there on your back
With the boy with the arab strap
With the boy with the arab strap
(Recorders)
[Instrumental Interlude]

[Verse 3]
It's something to speak of the way you are feeling
To crowds there assembled
Do you ever feel you have gone too far?
(You have gone too far)
'Cause everyone suffers in silence a burden
The man who drives minicabs down in Old Compton
The asian man
With his love hate affair
With his racist clientele

[Verse 4]
A central location for you is a must as you stagger
About making free with your lewd and lascivious boasts
We all know you're soft 'cause we've all seen you dancing
We all know you're hard 'cause we all saw you drinking
From noon until noon again
You're the boy with the filthy laugh
You're the boy with the arab strap

[Instrumental Interlude]

[Verse 5]
Strapped to the table with suits from the shelter shop
Comic celebrity takes a back seat
As the cigarette catches
And sets off the smoke alarm
What do you make of the cool set in London?
You're constantly updating your hit parade
Of your ten biggest wanks
(Come join, everyone)
[Outro]
She's got style (But don't fall off)
Sunday bathtime could take a while
She's got style (Sorry, excuse me, sir)
Sunday bathtime could take a while
(Just wanna see what everybody looks like)
She's got style
Sunday bathtime could take a while
(That's better)
She's got style, so much style, too much style
She was too good for me
She worked as a waitress, but she had a rich daddy
She was slumming it
I wrote her a note, I said
"Dear Catastrophe Waitress"
She's got style
She never wrote me back, she got fired that week
And that's the way things go, it's bittersweet
We got this song, at least
And it's called, "The Boy With The Arab Strap"