Kill the Young
THREE brothers. From Congleton’s sticky, striking Northern-punkedup-streets. Brought up – like all good United fans - on a diet of Cantona, Coogan and Cobain. Which just about covers it all. Kicking around. Mucking around. Fucking around. Playing football. All the time. Missing meals. But mostly: Missing meals through Playing instruments. Put the youngest one on drums and in goal. The oldest up front and up front and on guitar. The middle one holding it together in midfield with bass and box-to-box stolid stamina. That analogy never really works. Let’s try it again.
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Kill the Young lyrics
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