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Simon held his chequebook to my neck, He listened to me beg, Then he sold us to the radio. Here's another idea to dilute, To dole out and pollute, The unpalatable truth They are out to mug you. There's one line you won't forget, My respect bought and paid for. Come and Spit for strangers. Simon's breathing down my neck. And he wants me to forget, That I've sang these songs before The sash my father's wore. And the indie-pop sweatshop Is shuttering its doors. Barrels have been scraped clean but he wants to check the floor They are out to bore you. There's one line you won't forget, My respect bought and paid for. Come and Spit for strangers. There's one line I won't regret, My respect bought and paid for. Blood and Sweat for strangers. Controlled demolition, A penny for your thoughts. A towering admission, To the questions that we've brought. Is it blind ambition? Is it sounds for the tame? Is it songs for the healthy, praise for the mended or prayers for the sane? Is it an omission of bitter taste? Or is it time to start all over again? So sign here, And print your names