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English Gangsters

English Gangsters


George, the archetype, was out too long
He’s gun jammed and then his head slammed
Amongst the litter on the pavement
He died as he lived
With a craving for dangerous entertainment
And now in this dingy basement
We gather round the snooker table
Discussing the way we’ve been labelled

We’re not a cancer
we won’t hurt you
we are the English gangsters
the end of tradition

table filled with dubious larger
men talking about how’s your father
it’s been this way for years
it started in the playground, giving kids the run-a-round
blood for blood, and pound for pound
and it ended in a car park
our bite no match for our bark
with tears around a chalk-mark

we’re the end of tradition
Kids with dreams to men with ambition
We are the English gangsters
No need for applause

We could frighten with a stare
Chase the racey women with lacey underwear
Set the pulses racing and take what we need
In a time of honour amongst fellow thieves
We thrived and time was on our side
The time we were in control of
Slowly slips away, faster and faster
No longer the masters

We were the English gangsters
Now you’re left with the chancers
The rude boys and the estate boys
Those are the cancer
We had honour
We were the English gangsters
 

 
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