I got into an argument with Sketch about Margaret Court. Started on a very safe topic, or so I thought. I say, 'Sketch tell me something about yourself, 'Cause we just met and I don't know you very well.' He says, 'Well I'm the best truck driver in the state And you commie fascists wanna take a champion's pride away!' Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) To be fair, he told me he was private and I egged him on, 'Cause I was tryna figure out if he had a favourite movie, book or song. I say, 'Sketch I'm only trying to learn about your hobbies.' He says, 'Just what I'd expect from the dole bludger lobby.' I say, 'What's the dole got to do with homophobic tennis?' And he says, 'You know.' But I don't. Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (What the fuck are you talking about?) I dunno how we got here. This conversation's outta control. I was tryna be friendly, But now Sketch is on a roll - He says, 'This is why I only really talk to my friends.' I say, 'Nah man it's because you only talk to your friends.' And I insult him as I leave and then I feel like an arsehole, But at least I'm not as much of an arsehole as Margaret Court. Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) Ah well, Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (Margaret Court's an arsehole; What the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on.) Sketch, what the hell Sketch, what the fuck Sketch, come on. (What the fuck are you on about?)

They find the rocks in your pockets While you're sleepwalking out by old Davey's boat. So does the soul sink? Or does it float? 'There ain't nothing for it,' says Davey. 'The boy's gotta be fixed. Well the outside world's brought him demons, And those demons have brought him to this.' Oh, sweet and strange, The choir's strains - It's the way that the words come straight from the heart That fills your head with hellsong. Well the abbot's a righteous man, He knows you can't fool God. And the price for harming oneself Is fifteen strokes of the rod. With the crowd gathered round, All rousing to din, You see Glory and worship In the abbot's spittle-specked grin. Oh, sweet and strange, The choir's strains - It's the way that the words come straight from the heart That fills your head with hellsong. What the abbot don't know, 'Cause it ain't on his Good Book's page, Those blows don't drive away demons They rouse them to hunger and rage. You find the key easy enough While they're all absorbed in praise. Now hark at the rapturous cant of their hymn As the chapel catches ablaze. Oh, sweet and strange, The choir's strains - It's the way that the words come straight from the heart That fills your head with hellsong. (They've filled your heart with hellsong They've filled your head with hellsong)