Lyrics

Someone muddied the oat milk
And now there’s nothing clean to drink
I’m making milkshakes while you’re making deals with equity weasels
May I speak with the chef?
For its not a recipe that sits well on my gut

Someone defecated in the speakers
I withdraw my tenner a month
They’re sending out shites at three hundred and twenty kilobytes
Someone please turn it down
For its not a melody that sits well on my gut

Even the pen from which my quibbles flow through
Beneath lies a backdrop of inhuman revenue

Somehow Bezzubov still stands
But your days are numbered you toothless count
You can tell your swine straddling friends who parished it up the walls
Someone close the common room
For this cabinets taking a beating on my gut