Every friday night outside the pubs
You see them on the corner
There's a bit of fighting cos
Someone was told they're out of order
Could it be the fact that
They have had nine or ten pints of lager
And the confines of the pub have
Pushed them both to points of anger
Then I see the cloud
The red mist hanging over
Will it clear
Will fighting drunks get sober
They're coming near
No time to talk things over
I've spilt my beer
I should have had a soda
Saturday night it comes around
And there's a stench in the town
Every corner turned you see a
Scuffle and a face looking down
Is it down to beer the fact that
People can't really get on now
Fighting drunks on every street
At ten thirty and three thirty shows