When a drunkard's busy drinking,
And the alcohol is sinking,
And the parts that should rise up just won't oblige,
Then he'll cure those pesky ills,
With some magic bluey pills,
For they'll spruce him up and get him back to size.
And when a randy old parishioner,
Who's not getting any thinner,
Wants to tup a wench who thinks he's past his best,
He just takes a little bluey,
And shouts out, Wha-ho, wha-hooey,
And throws her down and then rips off her vest.
And if that well-respected doctor,
Wants the daughter of his proctor,
He just has to sit and write himself a chit,
And with that little pill inside him,
There is no-one there to chide him,
And he jumps right in and has himself a bit.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved