Gather round children I'll tell you a tale

about a musical movement modelled to fail,

it made us jump, it made us cry

and put safety pin sales at an all time high.

It mocked the establishment filled them with dread

put kids on the dole on a stage instead,

t'was a thing of excitement that let us be free

but ultimately it wasn't to be.

 

It began in the summer of '76

when labour were up to some dastardly tricks.

There was high unemployment, money was tight,

you couldn't walk safe in the streets late at night.

It seemed people were just lining up for the hearse,

the landscape was dull and the music was worse.

T'was a place in need of redemption it seemed

like a dirty old slate in need of a clean.

 

When all of a sudden from out of the blue

came an orange haired prophet who knew what to do

from a grey council flat in Finsbury Park

he created a fire for he was the spark.

He walked down the kings road stiff as a droid

with a homemade t-shirt saying 'I HATE PINK FLOYD!!'.

He teamed up with some geezers with drums and guitars

and it wouldn't be long before they were stars.

 

They took to the stage like a nuclear bomb

and made sure that the old way was buried and gone.

The message was that they were sick of it all

and all of the lyrics were bang on the ball.

They spoke of injustice and identity

and their quest for individuality.

They were a law to themselves, they lived without fear

and this had caught on as a novel idea.

 

They were called The Sex Pistols they bought anarchy

put two fingers to aristocracy.

The old folks went mad as they swore on t.v

and set an attack on the monarchy.

They inspired loads of bands like The Jam and The Clash

who despised all the hippies still puffing on hash.

But the movement's direction soon turned to a game

and was given a formula, fashion and name.

 

The papers had printed the pistols as punk;

Obnoxious and crude, offensive and drunk.

But categories weren't what this thing was about

now the main sentiment had been sorely missed out

and now every teenager thought it was hip

to attach safety pins to their jeans and top lip

and by '78 it was all a big joke

and a new generation had gone up in smoke.

 

For the next years ahead it was known as a trend

absorbed by the system and spat out again.

The pistols had split soon The Clash followed suit

now music was due for a drastic re-boot

but nothing exciting would come after that.

It was all record companies trying to get fat

and shallow sap artists with a great sense of greed

personified nicely as MTV.

 

Now to be punk you need a Mohawk and boots

and followers now have forgotten it's roots

and I'm sick of those middle age men at the bar

who have just driven up in their company car

who rant about how they were there at the start

and how they all felt that they were a part

of a movement of spirit, ambitions were high.

Well now you're a twat in a suit and a tie.

 

Now Green Day and Paramore litter the charts

and frankly i can think of more interesting farts.

The so called 'Punk Movement' has died on its arse

it's a pantomime, a category, an image, a farce.

 

And now that boy from Finsbury Park has grown a big fat belly

he's past his prime and spends his time just popping up on telly.

The sentiment has now become a steaming pile of shit,

so it's time we all just faced the facts, punk's dead GET OVER IT!