Office girls flirting at the riders By the pelican crossing They do that Vicky’s on the radio Digital radio She’s burning a hole in my shoulder My controller So I stand on the pegs Flick up the nose Make this 250 go sideways Glory bound on the old Kent Road Weaving and jinking Clipping wing mirrors And red means stop Just sometimes Amber means go To me A thousand a week on Greasy Street Talking miles that is not money I got no worries See that fat man die on a slip road while the coppers are pumping his chest Roll a fag Take a rest Then it’s head down and headed for Watford in the rain On a matt black rat bike And all the suburbs look the fucking same The only part of me that is not numb is my eyes Is St Christopher looking out for me from way up there Or is he wringing his hands Tearing his hair out in despair?I’m Triple A like a bullet Triple A dispatchers get home clear three times faster I could just roll on up to the Thames Chuck the whole lot in Stuff a lit rag in the tank and head for home But Vicky’s on the radio Digital radio And she’s burning a hole in my shoulder