Johnnersintheraw's Blog

April 28, 2010

I Was Born a Naked Sprog – The Ballad

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 5:50 am

(A Little Ditty with a Wistful, Ballady Ending)

(To Be Sung by Three Lyric Tenors and Accompanied by an Annoying ensemble of Guitar, Accordion, Fiddle, Tambourine, as well as a Folky Drummy Thing – and eventually by anyone who’s been at the Skull Splitter)

– I –

I was born a naked sprog

T’was early in the morn.

The nurse she shrieked

The Pastor said, “Tis sure in hell he’ll burn!”

(First Chorus)

I’m pissing in the wind I am

I’m pissing on my shoe,

I’m pissing on the clean white tiles,

Right down beside the loo.

– II –

Them nappies they weren’t good at all

They kept on falling off.

And when m’wanger peed on her

My aunty sawed it off.

(Second Chorus)

A splat of shite upon the wall,

It does not hurt a thing.

It makes a pretty brownie splodge,

And makes the doggies sing.

– III –

Nursie glued my pants on tight,

She didn’t miss a thing.

But I was standing on my head,

My nose was in her sling.

(First Chorus)

I’m pissing in the wind I am

I’m pissing on my shoe,

I’m pissing on the clean white tiles,

Right down beside the loo.

– IV –

I went to school when I was six

I will not tell a lie.

The teacher sent me home again,

I had not worn my tie.

(Second Chorus)

A splat of shite upon the wall,

It does not harm a thing.

It leaves a pretty brownie splodge,

And makes a man a King.

– V –

When I was twelve I fell in love,

It wasn’t very nice.

The girl she made me wear a glove,

And said I gave her lice.

(First Chorus)

I’m pissing in the wind I am

I’m pissing on my shoe,

I’m pissing on the clean white tiles,

Right down beside the loo.

– VI –

When I was wed, I dyed it red

And thought it looked quite fine.

The priest he took one look at me,

And took me home to dine.

(Second Chorus)

A splat of shite upon the wall,

It does not harm a thing.

It makes a pretty brownie splodge,

And makes a man a King.

– VII –

When I grew old and wrinkles grew

I still would wear no pants.

A trickle dribbled down m‘leg

And drownded all the ants.

(First Chorus)

I’m pissing in the wind I am

I’m pissing on my shoe,

I’m pissing on the clean white tiles,

Right down beside the loo.

– VIII –

When I had died and buried was

Upon the craggy peaks,

My soul could never dance or sing

They’d stuffed me in m’breeks.

(Second Chorus)

A splat of shite upon the wall,

It does not harm a thing.

It makes a pretty brownie splodge,

And makes a man a King.

I (Reprise)

I was born a naked sprog

T’was early in the morn.

The nurse she shrieked

The Pastor said, “Tis sure in hell he’ll burn!”

(here we slow down a lot for dramatic effect)

“Tis sure in hell he’ll burn!”

“Tis sure in hell he’ll burn!”

“Tis sure in hell he’ll burn!”

(&tc)

(First Chorus – Reprise)

(here we speed up a lot for a rousing finish (as is befitting a drinking song), after which you may start making up your own verses. NOTE: In order to annoy the neighbours, It should be sung at the top of your voice).

Ohhhhh….I’m pissing in the wind I am

I’m pissing on my shoe,

I’m pissing on the scrubbed white tiles,

Right down beside the loo.

(Suggestions for optional verses)

I

I’m pissing up my nose, I am

I should’a been a goat

I smear my wanger all with jam

And fuck the Beeb remote.

(Repeat First Chorus – see above)*

II

I’m pissing right across the street

Right up upon your wash,

And splashing it upon your feet

I am so very posh.

(Repeat Second Chorus – see above)*

III

My wanger is a lucky chap

He does just what he wants.

He never ever gets the clap

Nor goes into a trance.

(Repeat First Chorus)*

IV

And when he does go beddie-bye

He always says his prayers.

And in the night, when dreams is right,

He spews up all his cares.

(Repeat Second Chorus)

* This is a drinking song (though not literally a fucking drinking song, which is by way of being an impossibility). It is not recommend for a church social or for a Primary School Show-and-Tell, or to sing at your daughter’s graduation.  However, it has proved popular with certain chapters of the W.I., especially after the judging of the Best Whisky Marmalade and Best Christmas Puddings with Hard Sauce competitions.   It might also prove to be a winner with your 11-year old son – you know the one: the grumpy, smelly, hormonal, spotty, pustule who hasn’t spoken to you since he entered puberty at the age of six.  There’s every possibility that this little song might open a channel of communication.  And if nothing else, it will embarrass him so much he’ll ask to be sent to boarding school.  This, of course, this is what we call a win-win situation: A win for him because he won’t have to eat your wife’s attempts at Jamie Oliver’s healthy eating; a win for you because you can rent out his room to someone nicer and more polite – someone you can proudly pass off as your own issue, and whose rent will help to pay off not only the mortgage necessitated by your son’s school fees, but also the fines incurred by his ten-thousand or so illegally downloaded files of garage bands who think they are Jimmy Hendrix.

Put it this way.  This song is not so much an irresponsible drinking song, but a community service.  This demonstrates that I am a solid citizen after all and – as such – entitled to my own show on BBC Radio, one which will hopefully offend both the Daily Mail and ‘readers’ of the Sun.

This also proves that just about anyone can have a future if they live long enough.

 

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