Almost Certainly
My name is Philip Hammond
I’ve only half a brain
And when the half’s examined
It’s clinically insane
I have one foot to tender
It’s jammed inside my gob
It’s been out on a bender
And it does a lousy job
My hands are full of fingers
But they meddle with the thumbs
The memory still lingers
Of laughing with my chums
And all of us wear blue dye
And all our hearts are woad
We know our mis-shaped crew by
The way each squats, a toad
We’re useless at discussion
Our arguments are lame
Our words are mere percussion
Ain’t it all a fucking shame
Almost certainly we’re useless
At whatever work we do
We’re wastrels, weird and juiceless
And we haven’t got a clue
Click here for a Guardian article
