Brian Dead - Instrumental

Oh cheeky cheeky Oh naughty sneaky You're so perceptive, and I wonder how you knew But these finks don't walk too well A bad sense of direction And so they stumble round in threes Such a strange collection Oh, you headless chicken Can those poor teeth take so much kicking? You're always so charming As you peck your way up there And these finks don't dress too well No discrimination To be a zombie all the time Requires such dedication Oh please, sir will you let it go by 'Cause I failed both tests with my legs both tied In my place the stuff is all there I've been ever so sad for a very long time My, my they wanted the works, can you this and that I never got a letter back More for me, bless my soul More for me, bless my soul More for me, bless my soul More for me, bless my soul More for me, bless my soul Oh perfect masters They thrive on disasters They all look so harmless Till they find their way up here But dead finks don't talk too well They've got a shaky sense of diction It's not so much a living hell It's just a dying fiction