Counting each sheep, shooting up crap,
stroking the fur on my pet sewer rat.
Six mugs of cocoa, tune on a fiddle,
still hopping round like a flea on a griddle.
Beating my breast bone to wear out the tear,
piss my pyjamas, why should I care?
Pinch the plump arse of a passing by whore,
throw out the pram with the bed pan and sores.
Stuffing the bun in a hot sticky oven,
talking in tongues all of a sudden.
Oiling my testicles to wrestle with Turks,
lighting a blow torch behind the gas works.
Shit on the sofa talk trash to the tele,
swing from the rafters, wearing fluorescent wellies.
Still counting sheep as they flock through the pen,
wake up in the morning start over again.
So shall it be, but shall it be good?
As for me, with my luck, I don’t give a fuck.