They are living in the fast lan,
With agents not a few.
They dress in High Street fashions,
And look a stupid crew.
They are living in the fast lane.
To make people stand and stare.
As they throw up in the gutter.
Howling like a bear.
They are living in the fast lane,
Although they’re unemployed.
They’ll run along the fast lane,
Screaming by Pink Floyd.
They are living in the fast lane,
Howling at the moon.
They don’t know what they’re there for,
Locked in some dark room.
They are living in the fast lane,
Hating the police.
Their mothers say they love them.
But all they want is peace..
They are living in the fast lane.
They make believe it hurts.
A shirt from a neighbours washing line.
With sequins at the points.
They are living in the fast lane.
Two of them have bikes.
King he has a motor car,
But its engine’s gone on strike.
They are living in the fast lane.
Skin deep golden boys.
On Saturday night a-jiving.
High Street booze and toys.
They are living in the fast lane.
Their mothers wash their clothes.
Though they carry condoms hopefully.
They might score, who knows?
They are living in the fast lane.
Be in by half past eight.
Or you’ll find a brace of sausages,
Congealing on your plate.
They are living in the fast lane.
It’s not so very fast.
But it’s all they have to live on.
Death waits us all at last.
They are not really in the fast lane.
It’s dreary, dull and slow.
And they need their canned illusions.
That’s all they need to know.