He's the loner with the boner
The constant fucking moaner
Who rarely ventures out past Carfax Street...
Hour after hour
Sat in the Murray John Tower
Fills himself with diet Coke and sweets...
He's a boring little bastard
By 3 o'clock he's plastered
And hasn't worked for years due to ill health...
He twice weekly visits Menzies
With reckless buying frenzies
His magazines are all off the top shelf...
By six he's in a coma
Carries a strange aroma
And once almost got stabbed in Theatre Square...
He wears ill-fitting trackie bottoms
His teeth are loose and rotten
And he shaves his head to cover a lack of hair...
He is a regular in Corals
He has no fuckin' morals
And the brand new Library is his favourite place...
Somehow he thinks he looks like Arnie
As he eats his bacon sarnie
And runny egg trickles down his face...
Once a fortnight he signs on
He knows his chance has long gone
To work at Honda and drive a Civic car...
So he settles for his giro
His Sun crossword and Biro
And fills it in while sat in the Casbah...
He's a useless, boring twat
Who wears a gopping hat
And buys all his clothes from TK Maxx...
Through binoculars he spies
Ladies bras' and flies
While he gorges himself silly on savoury snacks...
Once a year he goes to Weston
With his favourite shorts and vest on
To stare at girls that sunbathe on the beach...
He thinks women all adore him
But if you ever saw him
You'd know he was greasy leching leach...
He sits picking at his arse
As he stares out of the glass
From twelve floors he can see the County Ground...
Tells everyone he meets
That the silly plastic seats
Are made for people under ninety pound...
That's his excuse for never going
Not his belly that keeps on growing
Filled with Pizza bought from Papa John...
He has his special mucker
A smelly little fucker
A 'lifter' who he sometimes calls upon...
Once a month he crashes over
And parks his dead Dad's Rover
On double yellow lines in Fleming Way...
They stay up 'til early morn
On a diet of speed and porn
And part to go about their normal day...
He strolls down to the Bank
But not before he's had a wank
'Cos his day would never quite be the same...
If he had'nt ejaculated
Or in Corals speculated
And had a fiver on the outcome of the game...
The constant fucking moaner
The loner with the boner
Has never married and he has no kids...
'Cos he will never find
The girl with a great behind
Or anyone to wash his filthy skids...
He is a Doner Kebab lover
Got the habit from his mother
Who once got nicked soliciting in Town...
He says she was a victim
But as she quickly licked him
A copper caught her with her knickers down...
He is one of those you swerve
And loiters like a perv
To watch the students getting on the bus...
He itches at his boils
While eyeing up the spoils
And pops his whiteheads that are full of puss...
He gets back to his flat
Takes off his gopping hat
And rests to let the sweat dry on his skin...
Looks at his shirt signed by Macari
Turns on his old Atari
Dreams of perhaps one day being thin...
Knows that this will never be
'Cos he is forty three
And that much fat is very hard to lose...
Why change the habit of his life
On-line sex, no wife
And trays of take-away and bargain booze...
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