I sing with the voice of a donkey
I sing with the lungs of a motorbike
I now a little holiday paradise
And Johnny Rotten is its name


I’m just talking bullshitiaco
I’m talking phobiaister



Name it is Rotten Johnny
You turn the fucking music up
You opened my eyes to the music
Opened my eyes to the music? Yeah, you opened my eyes



I’m just talking bullshitiaco
I’m talking phobiaister



I’ve got a tattooed map of the universe all over my body
I’ve got a mischievous grin
Now Moby Dick does not exist (say it very quietly now)
He’s just a figment of the imagination of Herman
Melville just like I am



I’m just talking bullshitiaco
I’m talking phobiaister
If you don’t get paid you are an ‘ist
Like a communist, a capitalist or an anarchist
If you’re lucky enough to get paid you are an ‘er
Like a worker, like a washer
And a washer is part of a tap
Bullshitiaco