Black
Lace, Black Lace, You’re a fucking disgrace,
You
take to the stage with amateur haste.
Agadoo
you do, in presenting your case,
But
look at your flip flops, they’re so out of place.
Where
are the sequins, where is the cheese?
I
came to watch you, but who the fuck are these?
They’re
not the real ones ‘SUPERMAN, please?!’
Flabbies soaked in bin juice; inflated fees.
So
whatever happened, whatever went wrong,
Just
turn on the backing tape, crack on with the song.
And
I’m guessing the set won’t last too long...
Finish
on a megamix, pad it out with a cong...
A,
call it a pony for a turn and a spout,
Don’t
worry about showbiz, it clearly means nowt.
Where’s
the sounds that once had the clout?
Aired as flash-in-the-pan novelty no doubt.
So
bucks fizz your ideas, and give it a try,
This
lacklustre performance is making me cry.
Just
a push-pineapple-Hawaiian-shirt-less lie...
...What
happened to Black Lace, did one of them die?
...Yes...
