We were gathered on a Thursday   To see the 2 out of 5   Pitch your newly pressed pop record   And the room was well inside   Until the faithful got the bends   And you never made amends   For the fielding error on the call   To play your best known song of all      I wanted to hate you   That was my first choice   I wanted to hate you   Until I heard your voice      My, how rude, so impolite   All this on your night of nights   Little man of smallish frame   Crushed beneath your pop band name   Your table manners left behind   In an Oxfrd flat at suppertime   You came of range on centre stage   Now sleep's not all your losing      I wanted to hate you   That was my first choice   I wanted to hate you   Until I heard your voice   When I heard your voice   I could ignore your face   When I heard your voice   Tom with a "TH"      Let the ass bray   Make the punters pay      Let the ass bray   Make the punters pay      Let the ass bray   Make the punters pay      Let the ass bray   Make the punters pay