Our Godfather
Who art in Twickenham
Hallowed be thy nose
The fingers strum, thy songs be done,
On Earth as they were in London.
Give us this day our daily records;
And send us some VIP passes,
As we forgave those with passes who arn't us.
Lead
us not into the Lifehouse; And deliver us from Psychoderelict.
For thine is the Boathouse, and the power chords, and the groupies.
For ever and ever.
