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Fuck Ups Lyrics

"Fuck Ups" was written by David Steven Jackson;bryn Trmayne Fowler;robert Gareth Skipper;david Richard Healey.
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"Fuck Ups" was written by David Steven Jackson;bryn Trmayne Fowler;robert Gareth Skipper;david Richard Healey.
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Look, here comes another man
With another sorry story to tell
And you can bet he'll tell me all about
The time he fell from Heaven to Hell

Well, I don't wanna listen but he tells me all the same
[Incomprehensible] from his life's little games
Leave me alone, you're not a dog, I'm not a bone
But you're gonna bury me with your total misery

And when I'm out on Saturday with Charlie and Bill
I know for a while I shouldn't, I don't know if I will or I won't
If I do or I don't 'cause nothing is for definite and nothing is for sure
I am getting desperate as I am getting poor

All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
With their stories and their tears and their cigarettes and beers
All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
I think they're killing me with their grim reality

Look, here comes another drunk
With a face longer than Bin Laden's
And he has drunk so much alcohol
He can no longer get a hard-on

Not that he'll ever get a chance to use it
Women are intelligent, he is stupid
Lost and lonely he will remain
No amount of alcohol will wash his misery away

And when I'm out on Saturday with Charlie and Bill
I know for a while I shouldn't, I don't know if I will or I won't
Will I do or I don't 'cause nothing is for definite and nothing is for sure

All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
With their stories and their tears and their cigarettes and beers
All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
I think they're killing me with their grim reality

Well, a thirty-three year old grandma
Comes up to me and says
"My family's gonna take over this council estate
If we keep on giving birth at this rate"

"I'm gonna be a great-great-great-grandma
By the age of seventy-five
And I will be clad in fake Burberry, I don't care if I'm dead or alive
I don't care if I'm dead or alive"

All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
With their stories and their tears and their cigarettes and beers
All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
I think they're killing me with their grim reality

All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
If your live is going wrong, you'd better sing along
All the fucked up fuck ups fucking me up
You fucked up fuck ups

Songwriters
David Steven Jackson;Bryn Trmayne Fowler;Robert Gareth Skipper;David Richard Healey

Published by
TVT MUSIC ENTERPRISES, LLC

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