Weston Super Mare
It's a windy day in Weston,
the flags up on the pier,
are flapping like a bastard,
the sea's like foamy beer.
All the bastard chippies are open,
selling bastard fish and chips,
and the bastard penny arcades,
are full of bastard kids with zits.
It's such a bastard awful place,
it sucks out your bastard soul,
till you're like all the other bastards,
in that bastard Weston hole.
And when you're in your car,
on your way back home,
think of all those bastards,
and feel happy you're not alone.