| If your conscience fails you we can be your guide
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| The runaway train will take you for a ride
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| It’s an '88 special with automatic doors
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| Johnny Guitar, tell 'em where it goes
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| Down the tracks like a thunderstorm
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| Past the house where I was born
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| Guaranteed and bonafide, a genuine white knuckle ride
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| We’ve got smackheads, crackheads, pensioners, pimps
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| Anonymous alcoholics looking for a drink
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| So put your feet up, enjoy the show
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| Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill let’s go
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| We’ve got yardies, steamers, parasitic cops
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| Bostik boys playing chicken in the box
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| Jackpot crackpots, Summerstown blues
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| Nineteen nervous wrecking crews
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| Mad alsations, pit-bull terroists
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| Hammerheaded loan sharks trying out for Jaws 6
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| BMX bandits breaking all the windows
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| You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows
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| Twenty four minutes trom Tulse Hill
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| The driver’s dressed in black
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| He’s dead on the dead man’s handle
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| And we ain’t coming back
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| We’re going down the tracks and off the page
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| Past the dole, The Silver Blades
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| Through the flats to the seventh floor
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| Along the walkway to your front door
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| Up the staircase, down the hall
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| Where daddy bangs you against the wall
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| And beats your brains in with a tablespoon
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| AWOPBOPALOOBOPALOPBAMBOOM !
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| Calling all cars, calling all cars
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| Check all the pubs and raid all the bars
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| Bring in the rapists, the muggers and thieves
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| Make it safe for the OAP’s
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| House the homeless boys and girls
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| Save the children, feed the world
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| Then put your feet up, mind the gap
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| And take it right back to the track Fruit Bat
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| Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill
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| The driver’s dressed in black
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| He’s dead on the dead man’s handle
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| And we ain’t coming back
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| We’re going down the tracks and on ahead
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| Where skins and angels fear to tread
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| Up the chimneys, down the drains
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| Through the eyes of hurricanes
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| From the brothels of Streatham
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| To the taking of Peckham
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| Fun, fun, fun
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| Here we come! |