‘ere’s my effing pome

about love and all o’ that

I wish I ‘ad an effing beer

and a bloody awful  ‘at

 

so I could ‘ide behind my world

and dream about the time

when I was effing single

and I didn’t ‘ave to rhyme.

 

But yeah, I guess I luv ya

but please don’t tell me mate

or I will have to stuff ya

behind a storm-drain grate.