Scott’s and fattys

(cough,

spit)

Here's a little story 'bout a boy named Scott.

Six foot six with a spotty red face

Worst dressed cowboy in the whole damn place

No job to speak of,

just a blue-blood spine

Voting for the Tories while he waits in line (gimme cash now)

He's sniffin' white powder right off his thumb

Staring at his phone till his brain goes numb

Losing his allowance on the virtual screen

Watching fake football that he's never even seen (whoooo!)

Oh Scott, you tall ol' gimp,

you're a mess

With your pocket full of powder and your awful way to dress

Out of work, out of beer,

looking for a thrill

Chasing after heavy girls to get yourself a fill! (hahaha!)

He's an alcoholic, drinks the bar completely dry

Then he talks about politics

and starts to cry

He can't find a job but he's got those upper-class dreams

Splitting his trousers right along the seams (bless his heart)

Yeah, you're a Tory,

Scott

A tall, spotty-faced gimp

(sniff) Place your bets,

boy, place 'em now

(sniff,

laugh)