Paroles The Sheila Singer de Kevin Bloody Wilson

Kevin Bloody Wilson
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  • Artiste: Kevin Bloody Wilson22104
  • Chanson: The Sheila Singer
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Textes et Paroles de The Sheila Singer




We were just a little outback band playing pubs for peanutsDrinking, singing, shitting bricks every time we went on stageAnd most of all the gear we had was still on hire purchaseSome of it was borrowed, the rest we stole along the wayWe played country music evergreens and lots of rock & rollBut I felt something missing, that we needed something moreSo I got this sheila singer in to liven up the mobBest head I think I've ever had, that's how she got the jobAt eight o'clock we'd be ok, be pretty good by tenBy midnight we'd be fuckin' great, we'd all be pissed by thenAnd a punch-up after every gig, the band just on our ownTo see whose job it was to drive that sheila singer homeMy brother Terry he played bass, I played guitar and sangAnd a bloke who looked like Ringo was on drums and other thingsIan played the lead guitar on a home made speaker boxAnd the sheila singer kept on giving head, that's how she kept her jobWe'd play pubs and parties one weekend, a barn dance out of townThink that was the time that me and the sheila singer got found outWhen the other three sprung her giving me a head job in the vanJust jealousy I reckon, but the fuckin' punch-up started thenAt eight o'clock we'd be ok and pretty good by tenBy midnight we'd be fuckin' great, we'd all be pissed by thenAnd a punch-up after every gig, the band just on our ownTo see whose job it was to drive that sheila singer homeAnd so began the downhill run as practice turned to punch-upsI think secretly us blokes could see where we was heading nextSo best we split and stay good mates cause we all twigged togetherIf that sheila singer sang for shit we'd be at least two turds in debtAnd so me brother now he just plays golf but I still drink & singAnd the bloke who looked like Ringo's gone inside for drugs and thingsNow Ian just plays gospel, and shit happens so they sayThe sheila singer swallowed a microphone, had to give the game awayAt eight o'clock we'd be ok and pretty good by tenBy midnight we'd be fuckin' great, we'd all be pissed by thenAnd a punch-up after every gig, the band just on our ownTo see whose job it was to drive that sheila singer home

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