Tribal Quincey by Kid Scaramouche

You think you can do what you want, Tribal Quincey, but you can only push people so far, punk-doll!
You think you own the place, Tribal Quincey, and you do, I guess, but only on papery stuff. You couldn’t come trolling in this palace and tell us to repaint the floral stairs – you just try, Tribal Quincey!
You know what I think, Tribal Quincey? You know what I really think? I think you’re a gutterball, Tribal Quincey! Fit for the junk soup, man!
The Lord is singing, Tribal Quincey, but you can’t hear nothing but softball anchormen! Yeah, no soul in you, Tribal Quincey! Huh, more like fish pie and supper kids!
You colourless swine! You telephone bitch! You heaving, hopping hell-bop bastard!
You’re not fit to clean my cloot, Tribal Quincey! You’re a rotten ass, and I’ve said all I’ve gotta say!

• Experimental
• surreal
• weird pop
• Southsea