How long might it be oh Merv

That we sit

And wait with patience for the creamy head of your Paddy O’Furniture Stout

To rise from it’s obsidian depths

And we see you adorn it with the shamrock or the lyre ?

We have much about which to be concerned, Oh Merv

But the world in a Pig’s Arms pint canoe admits no strife or trouble

The froth, the bubble

Emergeth double.

And manifest it is to us – we hear the pipes a callin’

From Glen to Greg and maybe also Clyde

The summer’s gone and all the levers for Len

Are broken off –

So score for me a ride.

Chorus

Oh, take my back

And scratch me lightly o’er.

And run those nails –

Barely touching my backside.

The beach grows dark,

And fills the sand with shadows.

It’s time for me

To shut up shop

And come inside.