Come see the pad shops of Ingatestone
Come write them all at night when you're asleep
but don't waste them please
Come take up pads until you're 19
so peculiar lenses you'll report
you might even see a WH Smith's

And all the motherfuckers on Mountnessing
they wear the shitless gin
i know where they are, today or tomorrow night
to relieve them of their pads

And ''yes i brought them for me son's 20th b'day''
we hear them always crying
i thought they're dead
and ''yes i know, don't waste them all''
cheers

Or maybe they're already gone and maybe they're lived in Hutton
maybe we could even write our tribute albums whilst eyes closed
we write them down ''something like that' or 'i remember them at all'
come downtown to have them shot
into the den of the pad shops of Ingatestone
but act your age and don't waste them all cos that's childish, yobs