Twenty five quid to live on, seven days a week to survive.
Five and twenty pictures of the queen, you won't see the starvation in her eyes.
Twenty five quid to dish out, and you're already ten in debt.
So with fifteen singles left over, the landlord gets the rent.

Chorus:
Maggie, Maggie you cunt.
Maggie, Maggie you cunt.
Maggie, Maggie you cunt.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, you fucking cunt.

Twenty five reasons for trouble, three million mouths to feed.
They're destroying your mind and body, while they increase their own needs.
Twenty five quid of insult, two meals soon kills your health.
They want to see you suffer, they want to see you dead.