(To the tune of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’)
Singin’ flat in Sharkey’s bar, fermentin’ half ma brain,
Dancin like Travolta in tight jeans,
Isa said I looked a clown, then I farted like a drain,
I knew I’d eaten far too many beans.
I took my harpoon out, it looked a ripe banana,
It was mottled yellow, green and smellin’ off,
With the pints and vodka’s flowin’ doon
And the ceilin’ goin’ roon and roon,
In walked the ‘hack’ that thought hewisa toff!
Truthful news is jist absurd when Gerry lifts his pen,
’Cos honesty won’t sell his sordid rag,
In the ‘Screws’ you’ll find this turd, who passes off duff ‘gen’,
Our big fat egotistical windbag!
From the Holy Ground of Celtic, to the Brazen’s muralled walls,
Gerry’s slagged each Tim in green and white,
Boakin’ words of venom, and spewin’ total balls,
He’s got himself a P H D in shite;
He thinks that he’s a wit, but he’s just a sad old traitor,
Who knows his soul is headin’ down to hell,
With Traynor, Leckie, Keevins too,
He’ll join his hunnish mates in blue,
And rid this earth of a feckin awful smell.
‘Writing truth’ is not a phrase that quickly springs to mind
But numbing, clichéd, rank indifference,
In the ‘screws’ you’ll find this turd, who spouts from his behind,
Aye, wind and crap and rancid turgid ‘mince’!