mingin' bling

o ye of little taste! with caps pulled down to hide your faces
made redundant by your hoodies, hands down kecks to squeeze your goodies
alone you're background like a mural, but oh so tough when you are plural
nasty cars with modded bodies bring to mind mad max meets noddy
your gold chains prove that you aren't gay, & clothes for sports you never play

it's not alright, it's not okay
keep your mingin' bling away

& ladies - don't get off scott free - what's with the argos jewellery?
the towelling tracksuits have to stop
(do you really think she's still, she's still Jenny from the block?)
the brightest colours of the spectrum, thong hitched up to meet your rectum
when did builder's bum get chic? like all the rest you're so unique
the standard sunbed orange hue with melanoma peeking through

so obsessed with shiny things, just children crowned & conquering
infect our culture like a growth, yeah, eamonn, frankie, fuck you both
ever more ridiculous, consumption grows conspicuous