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.Reuse content