Have you ever suffered?
For twenty long years I've been b*ggered<br />With all kinds of horrible pains.<br />I've had every ailment I reckon,<br />From ruptures to varicose veins.
Neuritus with me is a hobby<br />And I've bunions and corns on my feet,<br />While I seem to breed stones in my bladder<br />Like f*cking great lumps of concrete.
I've spent a small fortune at chemists<br />And months in hospital beds,<br />While the stuff I've taken to shift me<br />Has torn my poor arse-hole to shreds.
My nerves are a bundle of torture,<br />And I'm told I've a valvular heart,<br />While I strain like a bloody buck navvy<br />Before I can squeeze out a fart.
The uretic gout in my fingers<br />Has made them all sizes and shapes,<br />And the piles I've got up my dirtbox<br />Just hang like bunches of grapes.
Uric acid, they say, is the trouble,<br />And I don't mind telling you this,<br />I've to whistle 'The Last Rose of Summer'<br />To coax my old tool to p*ss.
As far as a damned good erection,<br />The idea is simply absurd.<br />My pr*ck's like an undersized maggot<br />And soft as a young baby's turd.
Despite the advice I keep taking<br />There isn't a day I feel fit,<br />And it takes a barrel of gunpowder<br />Before I can possibly sh*t.
So I spend all my time in the crap-house,<br />Or moaning and groaning in bed,<br />And my pals simply mutter when passing,<br />"It's time the old b*st*rd was dead!"
For twenty long years I've been b*ggered<br />With all kinds of horrible pains.<br />I've had every ailment I reckon,<br />From ruptures to varicose veins.
Neuritus with me is a hobby<br />And I've bunions and corns on my feet,<br />While I seem to breed stones in my bladder<br />Like f*cking great lumps of concrete.
I've spent a small fortune at chemists<br />And months in hospital beds,<br />While the stuff I've taken to shift me<br />Has torn my poor arse-hole to shreds.
My nerves are a bundle of torture,<br />And I'm told I've a valvular heart,<br />While I strain like a bloody buck navvy<br />Before I can squeeze out a fart.
The uretic gout in my fingers<br />Has made them all sizes and shapes,<br />And the piles I've got up my dirtbox<br />Just hang like bunches of grapes.
Uric acid, they say, is the trouble,<br />And I don't mind telling you this,<br />I've to whistle 'The Last Rose of Summer'<br />To coax my old tool to p*ss.
As far as a damned good erection,<br />The idea is simply absurd.<br />My pr*ck's like an undersized maggot<br />And soft as a young baby's turd.
Despite the advice I keep taking<br />There isn't a day I feel fit,<br />And it takes a barrel of gunpowder<br />Before I can possibly sh*t.
So I spend all my time in the crap-house,<br />Or moaning and groaning in bed,<br />And my pals simply mutter when passing,<br />"It's time the old b*st*rd was dead!"
