Instead I warm my hands upon the flames of the flag
As I recall our downfall
And the businesses that burned us all
Instead I warm my hands upon the flames of the flag
As I recall our downfall
And the businesses that burned us all
Ha ha, charade you are
You fucked up old hag
Ha ha, charade you are
You radiate cold shafts of broken glass
(I'm sure Margaret Thatcher's ghost is glad to see these lyrics being applied to someone besides her for once)
Ha ha, charade you are
You fucked up old hag
Ha ha, charade you are
You radiate cold shafts of broken glass
(I'm sure Margaret Thatcher's ghost is glad to see these lyrics being applied to someone besides her for once)