If your conscience fails you we can be your guide
The runaway train will take you for a ride
It's an '88 special with automatic doors

Johnny Guitar, tell 'em where it goes
Down the tracks like a thunderstorm
past the house where I was born

Guaranteed and bonafide, a genuine white knuckle ride
We've got smackheads, crackheads, pensioners, pimps,
anonymous alcoholics looking for a drink

So put your feet up, enjoy the show
Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill let's go


We've got yardies, steamers, parasitic cops
Bostik boys playing chicken in the box,
jackpot crackpots, Summerstown blues

nineteen nervous wrecking crews
Mad alsations, pit-bull terroists,
hammerheaded loan sharks trying out for Jaws 6

BMX bandits breaking all the windows,
you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind
blows


Twenty four minutes trom Tulse Hill
the driver's dressed in black

He's dead on the dead man's handle
and we ain't coming back


We're going down the tracks and off the page

past the dole, The Silver Blades

Through the flats to the seventh floor
along the walkway to your front door
Up the staircase, down the hall

where daddy bangs you against the wall
and beats your brains in with a tablespoon
AWOPBOPALOOBOPALOPBAMBOOM !


Calling all cars, calling all cars
check all the pubs and raid all the bars

Bring in the rapists, the muggers and thieves
make it safe for the OAP's
House the homeless boys and girls

save the children, feed the world
Then put your feet up, mind the gap
and take it right back to the track Fruit Bat


Twenty four minutes from Tulse Hill
the driver's dressed in black

He's dead on the dead man's handle
and we ain't coming back


We're going down the tracks and on ahead
where skins and angels fear to tread
Up the chimneys, down the drains

through the eyes of hurricanes
From the brothels of Streatham,
to the taking of Peckham

fun, fun, fun,
Here we come!