Sleaford Mods songs have been described as embittered rants about such topics as unemployment, criticism of modern working life, criticism of celebrities and pop culture, capitalism and society in general.[6] The lyrics usually contain profanity, which is, according to Williamson, the way in which he speaks and "not just fucking swearing"

Sleaford Mods: ‘Pop has eaten itself. We’re fed up with the lot of it, mate’
t’s eaten everything you ever liked, and I mean everything. It’s turned your Sly Stone and whatever into waxed muscles in a helicopter. It’s turned your John Martyn into a breathless cashbag getting its nipples flicked by the beautiful people at the beautiful fucking party. “What are they doing?” you think to yourself. “What is it that I’m looking at?’, that proclaims to be a suitable distraction to this grim existence, the dud-work, the 70s wallpapering bench with crap aluminium legs. The music machine hints that it will rid you momentarily of this monotony.

What the fuck is it? I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure out why anybody would choose to become a kind of showbiz Beefeater protecting the mundane centralised power, guarding it day and night so it can keep brainwashing some idiot from wherever into thinking it’s a good idea to sing “Your sex is on fire” or whatever.

It’s got to be raw. No excuses. Not now.

The smell of piss is so strong
It smells like decent bacon
Kevin's getting footloose on the overspill
Under the piss-station
Two pints destroyer on the cobbled floors
No amount of whatever is gonna chirp the chip up
It's the final countdown, my fuckin' journey
I woke up with shit in my sock outside the Polish off-licence
"They don't mind" said the arsehole to the legs
You got to be cruel to be kind, shit man
Save it up like Norman Colon
Release the stench of shit grub like a giant toilet kraken
The lonely life that is touring
I got an armful of decent tunes, mate
But it's all so fuckin' boring

[Verse 2]
Tied up in Nottz, Nottz with a Z, you cunt
Black t-shirts and state toss
Nobby's nuts, the rule of rough cuts
A to Z of nothing gets all the shiz
We are real, we are lucky, 20p in the 10p mix
Crab eyes, another lonely little DJ with no fuckin' life
Weetabix, England, fuckin' shredded wheat, Kellogs cunts
On bleak shiz, on our cock, the green light don't stop
The shit homegrown dealers of Berlin begging for lolly
And it's beautiful how the privileged still let 'em in

[Chorus Outro]
Tied up in Nottz, Shit!
And then the dealer's tip top!
...Big up the riots!

Pop round Matt, i'll give you a fiver!

The Land That Time Forgot is on repeat
I can hear the screams of people, who wanna be me
They wanna shave my tongue
And tell the others that they were the ones who made me
Who made me

I've got called an anarchist
That's for the middle class trainspotters
I don't want my dog on a string
That's gonna hurt the thing
We got jobs in the mortgage clan
And a car with a smoking window, dad
Blaow to your life and lob it right off
It don't make no sense I know, look

Chorus:

The dinosaurs are stuck on Denmark Street
The boots of Hendrix lick my feet
I'm not bothered, I never was
Here's a crap caravan on Tiswas

The dinosaurs are stuck, no way to get down
The meteor sinks its teeth in the ground
I'm not bothered, I never was
Here's a crap gag from "Spit the Dog"

Cameron's hairdresser got an MBE
I said to my wife you better shoot me
It's all gone, what to do I do
Tell my daughter it's not true

Tell my daughter it's all gone wrong
Pete Tong, Pete Tong, Pete Tong

Get out of the mood
Get out of the way

Chorus

Tiswas! OTT!
Tiswas! OTT!