Perched upon a radiator, my buttocks thaw,
The cold North Atlantic,
it’s time for a War,
Dispute of land or a spat about God?
Not this time Olaf - this one is about cod.
The Iceland patrol came to cut our fishing nets,
We’d all got wasted and taken our bets,
How long till Mental Kenny (who had become quite a wreck)
Would throw chairs, swear and moon them from our top deck,
The hours pass and my special place thaws,
Though the smell of fish is like one thousand whores,
The stench wrecks my brain, I’m smothered by doom,
With eleven horny Fishermen crammed into one room.
No comments:
Post a Comment