I stole the bottle of gin from over the counter and ran, I knew I'd been seen.
I scarpered stifling giggles down the street and hid round a corner on a side street.

I heard him huffing and the sound of his big feet against the paving, he was getting close.

As he rounded the corner I sighted him up down the barrel of the gun and on seeing his expression Change to one of horror + confusion jerked back the trigger.
His body was jolted back by the force of the bullet + his feet flew forward.
I saw a bright little rivulet of blood arc into the air and I slid the gun into the waistband of my Trousers.

Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?

Is there really a thing like feeling too much?
Can you really escape + numb the real?

There's a way of saying, a way of sayin a shape - I feel a certain shape and it's complicated it's not like a square or a circle.
It's like a crystal or a diamond, it's clean, hard, unfathomable and it ends in an augmented kiss
It ends in an augmented (demented) kiss

Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?

Rock Stars are NoT cool.
They're full of his guy they call Satan, kids stuff oozing from their mouths.

They wear the shoes of dead soldiers shot by soldiers, valium horses trotting squeezing through their raspberry blood.

Sometimes I feel so stoopid I want to quit - get out of it cus I hate this world and everyone in it The fat Bald men who run it - the fat bald men.

Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?
Who the fuck are you looking at?

Copyright: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): GRAHAM COXON