Great fat hairy arseholes looming in my face
They're everywhere I go and I think it's a disgrace.
No longer can I enjoy a nice stroll in the park
As people thrust their big fat arses at me for a lark.
And walking down the high street no longer gives me joy
For perhaps a dozen arses will invariably annoy.
I have to close the curtains now for at my window pane
Will be pressed a row of arses even in the pouring rain.
And every single arsehole that does plague me in this way
Has got to be at least as fat as that of Robin Day
And each one is as hairy as a vacuum cleaner bag
And wrinkly as a urine-stained octogenarian hag.
It wouldn't be so bad if they were cute and pert and pretty,
But all these arses that I get are fat and gross and shitty,
And most of them have hideous spots and boils and lumps and warts
And sores and piles and cankerous growths. I really get all sorts.
Who the hell do they think they are, these people with fat arses,
Who feel they have to thrust their butts at me, an innocent passer?
Can't they go and take their bums, find something else to do,
Instead of making me observe the place from which they poo?
So, if you've got a fat arse and you see me in the street,
Just ignore me, walk right passed, you'll be doing me a treat.
But if you feel a huge desire to partake in this farce,
You can take your great fat, hairy arse and stick it up your arse.