Sleaford Mods - Out There Lyrics

Out there

I run my fingers through my hair

I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop

That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the f*ckin' Cov

But he don't care



I take up the right, left view and the road in front too

And make up my mind, slide past you

There's always animals singing on everyday

No cars to drown the noise of this, yea

Just queues for the clinic and 6ft conversation

I don't wanna talk, innit

I don't wanna talk to you, you cunt

You boring f*cking cunt

Looked grim

Then all of a sudden, I didn't give a shit about it and just became in

Got in with it, didn't touch anything

Just stared into a cold month with no people near it

I got stunned but the ivy grew back nice on my back wall under that sun like, "Who was it?"

Necking soft drinks in a Sydney bar was just really good, won't it?

Planes flying dead low

So warm and people taking shit on Monday

Not me though



Out there

I run my fingers through my hair

I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop

That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the f*ckin Cov

But he don't care



Why's this cunt got police protection?

He wasn't even running in the last election

I bet his partner at night says things like

"It's all for the good of your ideas"

Putting milk in the bowls of his children's inevitable tears every morning

Insane

Watch 'em get depressed under the lockdown stress

Little slap headed cunt, get Brexit punched

Let's get Brexit f*cked by an horse's penis until its misery splits

Ugly rich white men get shagged by it

Squeak

North London suburbs carry the pain in the bricks, religion and wheat

MP's popping up like newly planted council trees

Squeak squeak



Out there

I run my fingers through my hair

I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop

That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the f*ckin Cov

But he don't care



Benches with RIP badges under swaying trees that kiss the energy damaged

People underneath, same old same old, dugouts and old walks, footings

Oh f*ck, story's about the origins of buildings, slight hills, panic behind the tills

Rumble rumble, get the hot weather and some f*cker got a beer or two

Old firm hands unemployed, loitering

You just get f*cking annoyed like, what?

Dropkick ya silly bastards in my dreams that's about ya lot

Mumble mumble, dragging out slight hills, more panic behind the tills



Out there

I run my fingers through my hair

I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop

That it ain't the foreigners and it ain't the f*ckin Cov

But he don't care



(Panic behind the tills)

(Panic behind the tills)

(Panic behind the tills)

(Panic behind the tills)