| 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?
|
| 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 |