Lyrics - Paroles de chansons

Carry me hooting and howling to the river to wash of my hands of the hot blood, the sweat and the sand.
Any rival who goes for our girls will be left thumb sucking in terror and bereft of all coffin bearers.
A crude art, a bovver boot ballet- equally elegant and ugly.
I was as thrilled as I was appalled, courting him in fisticuffing waltz.
Now I'm not saying the lads always deserve a braying.
And I'm not saying the girls are worth the fines I'm paying.
We're just brutes bored in our bovver boots.
We're just brutes clowning 'round in cahoots.
We're just brutes looking for shops to loot.
We're just brutes hoping to have a hoot...
Hooting, hooting and howling.