Žodžiai dainai: Pulp. Other. Deep Fried In Kelvin.

Oh children of the future
Conceived in the toilets at Meadowhall
To be raised on the cheap cold slabs of garage floors
Rolling empty cans down the stairway
(don't you love that sound?)
Whilst the thoughts of a bad social worker ran through his head
Trying to remember what he learnt at training college
Lester said he wasn't allowed in here
So why don't you get lost?
And if you grow up
Then when you grow up, maybe
Maybe you can live
Live on Kelvin
Yeah you can live in Kelvin
On the promenade with the concrete walkways
Where pidgeons go to die
(a woman on the fourteenth floor noticed that the ceiling was bulging as if under a great weight.
When the council investigated
They discovered that the man in the flat above
Had transported a large quantity of soil into his living-room,
In which several plants he had stolen from a local park were growing.
When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.
When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.)
Oh God, I think the future's been fried
Deep fried in Kelvin
And now it's rotting behind the remains of a stolen motorbike
I haven't touched it, honest
But there isn't anything else to do
We don't need your sad attempts at social conscience
Based on taxi-rides home at night when exhibition opens
We just want your car radio
And those Reflux speakers
Now
Suffer the little children to come to me
And I will tend their adventure playground splinters with cigarette burns
And feed them fizzy orange and chips
And then they grow up straight and tall
And then they grow up to live
On Kelvin
Yeah
We can have ghettos too
Only we use air-rifles instead of machine-guns
Stitch that
And we drunk driving lights
In the end
The question you have to ask yourself is
Are you talking to me
Or are you chewing a brick?