Hey! Alright! Are there any wankers in the audience?
Jolly good! Here's a little poem just for you!
A * is the type of chap who peers down ladies' blouses
With a great big hole in the pockets of his *'s baggy trousers
He wears a *'s anorak that reaches to his anus
A Thompson * Twins t-shirt and a pair of niffy trainers
Yeah!
His hands are damp and squelchy, his * are like prunes
And the bags beneath his eyes are like the scrotums of baboons
His palms are rough and calloused, he trembles at the knee
His breath comes in short pants, and coincidentally so does he
He lives with his parents in a gerbil on the dodgy end of Ealing
And to improve his aim he's drawn a target on his bedroom ceiling
He's got a gun, he's got a gun, he's got a gun
He reads one-handed literature with things bizarre and sexual
The kind of stuff that makes a Sunday sport look intellectual
He drives a J-Reg Escort, has beans on toast for tea
Hang on a minute, * my boots, that * sounds just like me!
Hey! Alright!