| You’re gonna need your wits
 | 
| And you’re gonna need your tricks
 | 
| And you’re gonna need your feet planted
 | 
| And you’re gonna need your spit sucked in to mark him
 | 
| What can you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?
 | 
| How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
 | 
| I can smell 'em, let alone hear them
 | 
| They smell fearsome, pierce up me eardrums
 | 
| What do you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?
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| I don’t wanna go anywhere near them
 | 
| They’re always mucking up the lads' dodgy dealing
 | 
| How can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
 | 
| Yeah, the old other lot
 | 
| The other lot
 | 
| Tryna give me Mum a knock
 | 
| At one o’clock
 | 
| Yeah, we had it, had it up to the top
 | 
| Go nick the other lot
 | 
| Go nick a nonce
 | 
| I’ve had enough of the search and the stop
 | 
| I’ve had enough of the plod, can’t stand a lot
 | 
| Yeah, the old other lot
 | 
| The other lot
 | 
| The measly old PC, PC Plod
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| Pull up inside your quarters
 | 
| Sendin' you for a quarter, hey
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| Them boy there out of order
 | 
| The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi
 | 
| Came in like a mortar
 | 
| Smashed up me house inside
 | 
| And lied inside of their disguises
 | 
| And asked me the most mental of questions
 | 
| Like I would ever tell him wherever I’d hide it, mate, mate
 | 
| Just send me straight down to the station
 | 
| I done a couple’a birds, I know how to ride it
 | 
| No suicide, just me kettle and me rights
 | 
| And me left and me rights
 | 
| Why did anybody charge it
 | 
| How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?
 | 
| They want me freedom, but little geezer
 | 
| No, it’s not yours
 | 
| After your subpoenas, who do we lean on for moral support?
 | 
| They got me sweepin' up their wing for a chore
 | 
| The first rule is to never get caught
 | 
| Yeah, the old other lot
 | 
| The other lot
 | 
| Tryna clock the lads that plot
 | 
| At one o’clock
 | 
| Yeah, we bloody had it up, up to the top
 | 
| Go and give a rob to cop
 | 
| Your little job
 | 
| Yeah we had enough of the drops to the court
 | 
| Round to my mate’s, cut down his crop
 | 
| Yeah, the old other lot
 | 
| The other lot
 | 
| The measly old PC, PC Plod
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| Pull up inside your quarters
 | 
| Sendin' you for a quarter, hey
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| That’s the Old Bill for ya
 | 
| Them boy there out of order
 | 
| The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi
 | 
| Tryna turn me into roadkill
 | 
| Still pulling me up on the road, still
 | 
| This ain’t supposed to be colloquial
 | 
| Why the fuck do you think we’re so anti-social?
 | 
| Servin' up for a little hopeless meal
 | 
| In the east-end the old folks are ill
 | 
| They told me never to trust Old Bill, still
 | 
| Oi, oi, oi
 | 
| They bloody nicked me about thirty times
 | 
| They bloody nicked me for about thirty crimes
 | 
| Me and the lads’ll never stop spreadin' rhymes
 | 
| Me and the lads’ll never stop, ay, ay
 | 
| Fuckin' Old Bill, I hate your kind
 | 
| Bloody Old Bill, I hate your kind
 | 
| You wait until it’s our bloody time
 | 
| Oi, oi, oi, oi
 | 
| Oi, oi, oi, oi |