Quiet Ones Are The Worst


Common ‘n’ coarse, an impossible hurdle, to spoil a high-class girl.
Look at me now! Mixin’ in the right circles, I’m movin’ on up in the world.

Won’t eat a meal if there’s a fly in the soup,
won’t drink from a soiled glass.
I don’t care about a silver spoon,
‘cos she’s likes it up the ass/hard ‘n’ fast.

I don’t give a tinker’s curse.
I’m divin’ in headfirst. The

quiet ones are the worst.

Born ‘n’ bred with my mind in the gutter,
airs ‘n’ graces don’t impress me much.
Like a hot knife, slicin’ through the clutter,
I cut to the quick with a sharp tongued rush.

I’ll get what I deserve.
I’m divin’ in headfirst. The

CHORUS

Landed gentry, nouveau riche, West end girls ‘n’ upper class,
out of earshot, confide in me, they like a (bit of) rough badass.

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

©2.11.2018 Andrew Robert Chapman

cut to the quick, x x for a quick buck
Like a hot knife, I cut through the clutter,
not (cut) from the same cloth, cut to your crutch.
‘nless y’meet a high-class girl.
I’m not sure if there’s a silver spoon,
but she’s like that, that’s a fact.
Like a hot knife, I cut through the clutter,
cut to the chase, cut to your crutch.
Out of earshot, confide in me, they like it up the ass/that’s a fact.


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