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Kate Rancid



Oh how I hate those pesky prols,
You see around the town,
With sunken eyes and slicked back hair,
They really bring me down.

Oh how I hate their rancid clothes,
Of fabric cheap and nasty,
Their scabby mouths clamped firmly round,
A Greggs or Ainsley's pasty.

I so despise their toneless drawl,
Their stupid thicky voices,
I wish a thousand richer folk,
Would squash them with Rolls Royces.

I hate their rubbish base-ball caps,
Their constant beeping phones,
I wish they would just stay inside,
Their box-like square brown homes.

I hate the way they look as though,
Their lives are somehow hard,
When all they do is sit at home,
With chips they've fried in lard.

I hate the way they moan about,
Estates that are like ghettos,
The way they all smoke Superkings,
And hang around in Netto's.

I hate their toothless, sunken heads,
Their snotty, dirty babies,
I'd like to hug their lifeless kids,
But I'm afraid I might catch rabies.

I hate the way they leave their cars,
Outside their homes on bricks,
And hang around in towny bars,
Comparing size of pricks.

They give us litter, disease and crime,
They fill our streets with misery,
I'd magic them all far away,
If I was good at wizardry.

The filthy prols, those wretched beasts,
They get right up my ass,
Why can't we drop a fuck-off bomb,
Upon the working class?

Kate Rancid (b. 1973)