I want to be a punk-rocker, but my mother won't let me.
She says, if I'm a punk, she will hit me in the face.
I want to be a punk-rocker, the pure thought makes me sick,
Because what mother hates most is punk.
Secretly I listen to John Peel and drink alcohol,
The feeling is as stimulating as sex with Witta Pohl.
And when punk-rock is dead I'll still be there
To kick Johnny Rotten's balls.
I went to a café with my rat sitting on my shoulder,
A safety pin crossways through my cheeks.
I shock all people because I stink, too.
And take my coffee through my nose.
Ha ha ha ha
Never, she'll never let me.
But I don't give a damn!