Dyke Truckdriver
Song generated By ✨LyricsintoSong.com
v1
@ Daniel Cartwright
2026-05-30 05:13:55
Liedtexte
I am the very model of a dykey motorway phenomenon, A grease-stained, vape-emitting, cider-fuelled monstrosity begun,
I know the pubs of Birmingham, of Swindon and of Accrington, And every lay-by toilet from the Midlands down to Paddington. My dungarees are perilously strained around the fundament, My tattoos all look homemade and slightly anti-government, I carry seventeen assorted keys upon a carabiner ring, Though Heaven knows I’d never wear a proper wedding thing. I’m very well acquainted too with every sort of lesbian, From rugby girls to cottagecore to witches from North Devonshire, I quote the works of Cher and Kate McKinnon with intensity,
And cry at rescue puppies with alarming deep propensity. I drink suspicious pints of IPA and cheap blackcurrant gin,
I keep my fingernails all trimmed and hygienically disciplined, My cargo shorts contain enough loose Rizlas for a regiment,
And every ex I’ve ever had still calls me “emotionally negligent.” For she is the very image of a dykey truck-driving radical,
A motorway philosopher absurdly problematical, Her flirting style’s aggressive and her parking merely satirical, The great big dyke truckdriver is a creature quite empirical! At darts nights in the public house I cut a fearsome figure there, With Doc Martens that squeak theatrically and aggressively gelled hair,
I challenge blokes to arm-wrestles then buy them all a Babycham, And spend the evening chain-smoking outside a branch of Spar again. My truck contains a dashboard shrine of energy drinks and crisps, A rainbow air freshener, vape refills and slightly sticky bits, The cabin glows in LEDs of lurid pink obscenity, Like if a Pride parade were trapped inside a vehicle indefinitely. I never learned to parallel park neatly or responsibly, Yet somehow still reverse a forty-footer quite impossibly,
I sing melodramatic power ballads while consuming crisps, And accidentally start a fight by biting on my lower lip. For she is the very image of a dykey truck-driving radical, A cider-soaked catastrophist with habits problematical, From Crocs to flannel overshirts her style is quasi-criminal, The great big dyke truckdriver is magnificently difficult!
I know the pubs of Birmingham, of Swindon and of Accrington, And every lay-by toilet from the Midlands down to Paddington. My dungarees are perilously strained around the fundament, My tattoos all look homemade and slightly anti-government, I carry seventeen assorted keys upon a carabiner ring, Though Heaven knows I’d never wear a proper wedding thing. I’m very well acquainted too with every sort of lesbian, From rugby girls to cottagecore to witches from North Devonshire, I quote the works of Cher and Kate McKinnon with intensity,
And cry at rescue puppies with alarming deep propensity. I drink suspicious pints of IPA and cheap blackcurrant gin,
I keep my fingernails all trimmed and hygienically disciplined, My cargo shorts contain enough loose Rizlas for a regiment,
And every ex I’ve ever had still calls me “emotionally negligent.” For she is the very image of a dykey truck-driving radical,
A motorway philosopher absurdly problematical, Her flirting style’s aggressive and her parking merely satirical, The great big dyke truckdriver is a creature quite empirical! At darts nights in the public house I cut a fearsome figure there, With Doc Martens that squeak theatrically and aggressively gelled hair,
I challenge blokes to arm-wrestles then buy them all a Babycham, And spend the evening chain-smoking outside a branch of Spar again. My truck contains a dashboard shrine of energy drinks and crisps, A rainbow air freshener, vape refills and slightly sticky bits, The cabin glows in LEDs of lurid pink obscenity, Like if a Pride parade were trapped inside a vehicle indefinitely. I never learned to parallel park neatly or responsibly, Yet somehow still reverse a forty-footer quite impossibly,
I sing melodramatic power ballads while consuming crisps, And accidentally start a fight by biting on my lower lip. For she is the very image of a dykey truck-driving radical, A cider-soaked catastrophist with habits problematical, From Crocs to flannel overshirts her style is quasi-criminal, The great big dyke truckdriver is magnificently difficult!
Musikstil
Gay disco dance anthem