Agapoo

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...