PC Plod - Hak Baker

You’re gonna need your wits

And you’re gonna need your tricks

And you’re gonna need your feet planted

And you’re gonna need your spit sucked in to mark him

What can you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?

How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?

I can smell 'em, let alone hear them

They smell fearsome, pierce up me eardrums

What do you, what can you tell a man that’s heard it all before?

I don’t wanna go anywhere near them

They’re always mucking up the lads' dodgy dealing

How can you quell a man that cares not for your report?

Yeah, the old other lot

The other lot

Tryna give me Mum a knock

At one o’clock

Yeah, we had it, had it up to the top

Go nick the other lot

Go nick a nonce

I’ve had enough of the search and the stop

I’ve had enough of the plod, can’t stand a lot

Yeah, the old other lot

The other lot

The measly old PC, PC Plod

That’s the Old Bill for ya

That’s the Old Bill for ya

Pull up inside your quarters

Sendin' you for a quarter, hey

That’s the Old Bill for ya

That’s the Old Bill for ya

Them boy there out of order

The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi

Came in like a mortar

Smashed up me house inside

And lied inside of their disguises

And asked me the most mental of questions

Like I would ever tell him wherever I’d hide it, mate, mate

Just send me straight down to the station

I done a couple’a birds, I know how to ride it

No suicide, just me kettle and me rights

And me left and me rights

Why did anybody charge it

How can you, how can you quell a man that cares not for your report?

They want me freedom, but little geezer

No, it’s not yours

After your subpoenas, who do we lean on for moral support?

They got me sweepin' up their wing for a chore

The first rule is to never get caught

Yeah, the old other lot

The other lot

Tryna clock the lads that plot

At one o’clock

Yeah, we bloody had it up, up to the top

Go and give a rob to cop

Your little job

Yeah we had enough of the drops to the court

Round to my mate’s, cut down his crop

Yeah, the old other lot

The other lot

The measly old PC, PC Plod

That’s the Old Bill for ya

That’s the Old Bill for ya

Pull up inside your quarters

Sendin' you for a quarter, hey

That’s the Old Bill for ya

That’s the Old Bill for ya

Them boy there out of order

The rozzers, bloody tossers, cozzers, honours, oi, oi

Tryna turn me into roadkill

Still pulling me up on the road, still

This ain’t supposed to be colloquial

Why the fuck do you think we’re so anti-social?

Servin' up for a little hopeless meal

In the east-end the old folks are ill

They told me never to trust Old Bill, still

Oi, oi, oi

They bloody nicked me about thirty times

They bloody nicked me for about thirty crimes

Me and the lads’ll never stop spreadin' rhymes

Me and the lads’ll never stop, ay, ay

Fuckin' Old Bill, I hate your kind

Bloody Old Bill, I hate your kind

You wait until it’s our bloody time

Oi, oi, oi, oi

Oi, oi, oi, oi