Crass

Now that the sun have vowed is light
And bid the world good night;
To the soft bed my body I dispose,
But where were shall my soul repose?
Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother?
Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother?
Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother? Mother?
Mother? She's the anti-mother, mommy is that you?
She's the anti-mother, mother, mother is that you?
It's Myra Hindley on the cover,
Your very own sweet anti-mother.
There she is on the pages of The Star,
Ain't that just the place you wish you were?
Let her rot in hell is what you said,
Let her rot, let her starve, you'd see her dead.
Let her out but don't forget to tell you where she is,
The chance to screw her is a chance you wouldn't miss.
Let her suffer, give her pain is the verdict you gave,
You just can't wait to piss on her grave.
You pretend that you're horrified, make out that you care,
But really you wish that you had been there.
You say you can't bear the thought of what she did,
But you'd do it to her, you'd see her dead.
Tell me, what is the difference between her and you?
You say that you would kill her, well, what else would you do?