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