In a metal box that rocks
with metal from it’s rock boxes
White Stacey cries it’s alive
in black rhymes and lies
oh White Stacey, who were
you rocking in that metal rockbox?
Oh White Stacey, with their
grim impress still fresh on your yellow locks!
From low down the top end of town
old curling burley slope-headed blokes
snarl freely as Stacey bounces by in her box
back to flat pints of watery beer
back to the sticky games of
stuck down pool
wiping leering chops of drooling shots up
lining pints up
Yet somehow never cheering up.
Oh scroats! Oh unhappy ‘happy-hour’ scroats
How many you number
And mass riches you squander.
Drowning in pool, sliding on cue!
To the sticky end of
your bitter fed night!