On the bus home,
With my thre'penny bit in my pocket.
I can see that the dirty kids are out,
Running across the road in pyjamas, striped and faded.
They glare at me and my friend Michael, to them we smell.
The dirty kids don't like other people,
Because other people don't like them.
They laugh, they point, they stare.
The dirty kids glare and then turn their backs.
With our thre'penny bits we buy homemade ice lollies,
And fruit salad chews - eight for a penny.
The dirty kids live in home-made houses,
Eating Sunday dinners out of tins, none for a penny.
My friend Michael has a house with sliding doors.
No number on his porch, a name plate shines.
Cidonis - I wonder what it means.
His bathroom's black and glossy,
And there's a disinfectant air to the air.
The dirty kids live such lives of fun,
Bitten by bugs in their Woolworth's rugs.
Their bathroom's a sight, bare feet are banned.
The floor drips with piss, you slip on the shit you tried to miss.
Hold your breath because of the stench.
The back of your throat is dry and sore.
Are they happy?
Years later he sits, the floor drips in piss, he's in a prison cell.
He abused the dirty kids.