Gather round children I'll tell you a tale
about a musical movement modelled to fail,
it made us jump, it made us cry
and put safety pin sales at an all time high.
It mocked the establishment filled them with dread
put kids on the dole on a stage instead,
t'was a thing of excitement that let us be free
but ultimately it wasn't to be.
It began in the summer of '76
when labour were up to some dastardly tricks.
There was high unemployment, money was tight,
you couldn't walk safe in the streets late at night.
It seemed people were just lining up for the hearse,
the landscape was dull and the music was worse.
T'was a place in need of redemption it seemed
like a dirty old slate in need of a clean.
When all of a sudden from out of the blue
came an orange haired prophet who knew what to do
from a grey council flat in Finsbury Park
he created a fire for he was the spark.
He walked down the kings road stiff as a droid
with a homemade t-shirt saying 'I HATE PINK FLOYD!!'.
He teamed up with some geezers with drums and guitars
and it wouldn't be long before they were stars.
They took to the stage like a nuclear bomb
and made sure that the old way was buried and gone.
The message was that they were sick of it all
and all of the lyrics were bang on the ball.
They spoke of injustice and identity
and their quest for individuality.
They were a law to themselves, they lived without fear
and this had caught on as a novel idea.
They were called The Sex Pistols they bought anarchy
put two fingers to aristocracy.
The old folks went mad as they swore on t.v
and set an attack on the monarchy.
They inspired loads of bands like The Jam and The Clash
who despised all the hippies still puffing on hash.
But the movement's direction soon turned to a game
and was given a formula, fashion and name.
The papers had printed the pistols as punk;
Obnoxious and crude, offensive and drunk.
But categories weren't what this thing was about
now the main sentiment had been sorely missed out
and now every teenager thought it was hip
to attach safety pins to their jeans and top lip
and by '78 it was all a big joke
and a new generation had gone up in smoke.
For the next years ahead it was known as a trend
absorbed by the system and spat out again.
The pistols had split soon The Clash followed suit
now music was due for a drastic re-boot
but nothing exciting would come after that.
It was all record companies trying to get fat
and shallow sap artists with a great sense of greed
personified nicely as MTV.
Now to be punk you need a Mohawk and boots
and followers now have forgotten it's roots
and I'm sick of those middle age men at the bar
who have just driven up in their company car
who rant about how they were there at the start
and how they all felt that they were a part
of a movement of spirit, ambitions were high.
Well now you're a twat in a suit and a tie.
Now Green Day and Paramore litter the charts
and frankly i can think of more interesting farts.
The so called 'Punk Movement' has died on its arse
it's a pantomime, a category, an image, a farce.
And now that boy from Finsbury Park has grown a big fat belly
he's past his prime and spends his time just popping up on telly.
The sentiment has now become a steaming pile of shit,
so it's time we all just faced the facts, punk's dead GET OVER IT!