They call it service...

There was twenty of them waiting as they rattled the poor door,
They glared at their watches and we prepared ourselves for war.
Opening the door we braced against the oncoming tide,
Action stations! Don't think there is anywhere you can run and hide.

The ladies all come running, running down the stairs,
So they can get fitted up for their lovely pairs.
They said they wanted support in them but no seams and no lace,
Demands that make up want to hit them round the bloody face.

They call it service (serviceeeee!)
Where we all try and do our bloody best.

She said she doesn't like full cups, we say 'alright, wierdo'
And when we finish finding one she says that it's too low.
We say "d'you want a balconette? 'cause balconettes are best"
she says "I just want something to support my sagging chest"

Now we have a woman, who wants a fitting bad,
And when we tell her she has to wait she goes quite fucking mad.
We tempt her into trying on and offer her some help too,
And when she has all the bras we sell she asks "is that all you do?"

They call it service (serviceeeee!)
Where we all try and do our bloody best.


She nearly yelled at the bras she held and said "these don't fit right!"
But considering she's a forty she won't get in the others without a fight.
She asked for swimwear in "the biggest you've got!" for she was going away,
We all had mental breakdowns when she said the flights booked for the very next day.

They stick their heads out to try and get your attention,
Regardless of the fact your running round with the greatest intention.
They speak over you while your talking to someone else and doing up their bra,
Making you feel like running over them later with your car.

They call it service (serviceeeee!)
Where we all try and do our bloody best.

Now you rush about the stockroom, seven bits of paper in your hand,
If only you were in a pub, or if they complained you could shout 'your banned!'
You give them everything they've asked for and a few bits more,
And then they don't say thank you, they just slam the bloody door.

They ask you what's in the sale as it's too much to pay for this,
And they have made a special trip to us all the way from Diss.
You wince a little inside but you say 'I'll see what I can find',
You come back with the one bra we have but they say they don't like that kind.

They call it service (serviceeeee!)
Where we all try and do our bloody best.

You tell them about the web sale and they can order it from here,
But they want to try it on you see 'can't you just order it in dear?'
Explaining you can't do that, they say 'well I'm not paying for it now in cash'
You tell them it's the only way before wanting to hit them with a hulk smash.

The fitting rooms are tidy and it's almost six o'clock,
But someone has a giant list to try on, like a stupid fucking cock.
They want a bloody fitting for a bra, as there's a party tonight,
And secretly we wish we could turn off the god damn light!

The doors are locked, the trees are in, everything seems quiet,
But someone is rattling on the doors like it's a frigging riot!
Staring at them getting arsey, like there a diva film star,
'not a chance mate!' we are thinking 'were off to the bloody bar!'

They call it service (serviceeeee!)
Where we all try and do our bloody best.