Lyric Sheet

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The Independent Culture
In a move dubbed `rock 'n' dole' by Whitehall insiders, aspiring pop stars may be able to claim benefits unhindered by Welfare-To-Work schemes

They want you up at crack of noon

To write a standard three-chord tune

With Zenta plank and Woolworth's amp

In practice room which smells of damp

Best learn to pose and hone your ear

Before you bring that claim in here

Fill in this form sit down and wait

They'd like to hear that middle eight

And even though your synth is cheap

Your L.F.O. Pink Noise and bleep

Will need to show a bit more soul

Before you can collect your dole

With damaged ears and bleeding hands

At last a year in tribute bands

He'll strengthen his musicianship

But how d'you rate his native hip?

His pants are tight his goals are fuzzy

Wants to be a pop star does he?

D'you know the chords to Roll With It

Or could you pen a dancefloor hit?

How often do you gig each week

And could you conjure up mystique

From raunchy riff or greasy quiff?

Which Richard's better? Keef or Cliff?

In tests devised by Tony Blair

They mark you on your savoir faire

Is that a drummer at the door?

He's knocking out-of-time I'm sure

He looks like Kurt. He sings like Sid

Best give the boy his 40 quid.

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