From Rags to Richards Songtext
von Sleaford Mods

The fame, the fame

What else you got apart from chipboard, and Sir Lancelot?
Fags and meat, Lincolnshire tweets
Get slick, we mean it
Kitchens and sniff, go hand in hand like the wankers it employs
Sexy people in shiny shit with bags of it to enjoy

Have a bit of realism, no teeth and a bus stop seat
That′s your house, you racy prick
The tedium that connects itself to the nibble
Local media, and posh suburban wankers
Live in Brussels

From rags to Richards, the ferry got us out of the pain
From rags to Richards, I hope I don't see that daft cunt again

Blocked off the entrance to this flat
And that the life of a band attracts the chubbs in packs
Chubbed up, mate, it′s sex shows on tap
Heaven 17, is that the house, name and number, Pat?


Rick got slick on a dark hole man
Missed his train, did he? Fuck
He didn't even go to the station duck
Grey walls that tower, old bricks

Stop the car Pete, I'm gonna be sick
Spray gun, make the petrol stain flowers wish they had done
Parlour tales of death, threats on golden thrones
Those cunts at the top carry hollow bones in throws
Findus crispy human fingers, captain Sadist
Hundred per cent cod, fuck off

From rags to Richards, the ferry got us out of the pain
From rags to Richards, I hope I don′t see that daft cunt again

The fame
The fame
Look mate, we gotta get together
What for?
Motorbikes kiss the green lights
Snore, snore, snore

Look, mate, we gotta get together
What for?
Motorbikes kiss the green lights
Snore, snore, snore

The fame


The fame

The fame

The fame
The fame, the fame, the fame, the fame
The fame, the fame, the fame, the fame
The fame, the fame, the fame, the fame
The f-