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.