The clashing din of midnight loons
Carousing on the manic wheel
Foolishing another gash
Only for the want of a place to peek

Moonshine in a crabbit alley
Heel-ponce keeps dick
While bashful gets his piece out
And douses the scoundrel to his bones

Now loud the corporal basks
And asks keenly for come-uppance
Sanitation arriving bleeps
And the whole thing does a runner

——————————————————————————————————————

-He walks like a bitch, dresses like a tramp, finds his way about with a miner’s lamp.

-What’s that you’re singing?

-Aw just a wee song I’m writing.

-Nice. What’s it called?

-It’s called Maggie’s Britches Will Not Do.

-Oh right. Is that off that Iron Lady Concept album you have coming out?

-Naw, this one’s based on the life of a fella I seen sitting outside City Hall on a Saturday afternoon in September of 1973.

-Say no more. Here, you’re on the boiled eggs again today.

-Always and forever. Know where ye are with a good boiled egg. Have to get the troops marshalled here too…

-What’s he on about the troops?

-That’s what he calls his soldiers.

-Aye, but it’s just toast.

-Here, son, I’ve been eating boiled eggs for more than fifty years. I ought to know a thing or two about them, shouldn’t I?

-The troops…

-Yeah, and that makes me the General, so don’t make me have to pull rank here.
Anyway, aye. I was speaking to the pressing agents yesterday, they said they can do the ton at 150 so it’s looking good…