Saturday night finds me slumped at the bar,
Feeling like crap with my hands round a jar,
I doubt that I'd raise me a barrel of laughs,
As with head in my hands I reflect on my gaffs.
Thus with change in my pockets decidedly low,
And the lack of employment a shattering blow,
I just strum my guitar in the orthodox way,
And mutter a curse to the end of the day
Then I wonder if should have a game of cricket,
But I'm so ****ed it may be a leg before wicket,
I get up from the bar and my balls are in a tangle
And head for the men's to have a quick wazzle.
So here I am, lodged in the bog,
Went for a pee but dropped a log,
And then I find there is no paper,
Oh what a way to end this caper . . .
