Re Our gig at Deptford Abyss
Who the hell does Jeff Dreadnought think he is?
Was he even there? - I ask myself, does he even care? - don't kid yourself
Wait 'till our PR men hear of this.
It's a bad review; we got a bad review, oh ha
It's a bad review, what are we gonna do? Oh ha
I can't walk down the street 'cos other groups I might meet and they'll smirk
Oh, it's a rum old do is a bad review, oh Lord
An' my girlfriend's fuming.
You hacks don't know where it's at;
You can't appreciate the master of the Strat
Not that I'm concerned - 'course you're not, your paper's full of crap
'Course it is, I only read the gig guide anyway.
We got a bad review, I can't believe it's true, oh Lord
Well I know what you look like so don't ever come near Stroud
Page thirty-two, it's a bad review, oh Lord
My girlfriend's fuming.
OK, let's go to chapel.
Oo-oo what's to do? It's a bad review
Oo-oo what's to do? It's a bad review
The fearsome hollow boom of the older boys in the deep end
Green shoots of recovery shrivelled up in harsh tomorrows
Left to pick dry sticks and mumble to myself
A melancholy emblem of parish cruelty.
Oo-oo what's to do? It's a bad review
Oo-oo what's to do? It's a bad review
Bad review, bad review, bad review, bad review.
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