And what is more, you are a twit;
And, another bloody thing, l'm sick of it,
A lazy lout, a bloody berk
And you don't know what it is to work.
You act just like a nincompoop
And, another bloody thing, your shoulders stoop.
And all the lies that's in yer'ed
Are enough to raise the bloody dead!
I should kick you up the bum my lad
But Ee-by-bloody-gum my lad
Your bum is always in the bloody bed
Your eggs are cold, you won't get up
And I'm not your servant yet; go fetch yer cup.
Your room's a mess. It don't seem right
And why should I have to cook all night?
And I've no time to live my life
And I pity poor lass who'll be your wife.
Don't carry on, don't talk that way.
And just think what must our neighbours say?
And you never turn the lights out,
And l'm sick of your late nights out.
And you're bound to be the death of me one day!
And mark my words, and don't play deaf.
It's a funny bloody thing that your name's BF.
That's what you are: a bloody fool,
And they must have taught you now that school.
And wake up, lad, you're half asleep,
And it doesn't grow on trees; and earn your keep,
And stand up straight, you look half bent.
And you never pay the bloody rent!
And you get away with murder.
Idon't think I've ever heard a
Single word that is intelli-bloody-gent!
I call a spade a bloody spade
And, another bloody thing, I am self-made.
And you eat like a little bird.
And the fibs you tell are quite absurd.
They ought to give that boy what for,
They should put him in his room and
lock the door.
He's off his head, he's gone cuckoo,
He'd be better off inside a zoo.
There is nothing we can teach him,
It's impossible to reach him.
And if he were mine I'd push him
down the loo!
Christ Almighty! What relations! This lot 'ere are my three loves!
One - two - three assassinations, I won't get caught, l'll wear gloves!
... Bet the bodies that you bury
Are alive in t'cemetery;
Oh why did we ever undertake a son!
sung by Brian Pringle, Avis Bunnage, Betty Turner, Michael Crawford