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(Choruses only)

Grandad, he’s alright in my book
But everyone says he’s like Sidney Cooke
No-one lets him babysit
You’d have a nappy full of blood
And babyshit round his helmet
He can’t help his nob
And if you keep it quiet he’ll give you thirty bob

Grandad, his nob is out of control
He really don’t care where he sticks his pole
A face, a wound or a stroke in each hole
But all this action takes it’s toll
His nob’s gone numb
And it looks like a bit of chewed up chewing gum

Grandad, he looks like Vincent Price
But more sinister and not as nice
People say he’s got evil eyes
Like Josef Fritzl if he lived on Fray Bentos Pies

He’s getting more depraved
He’s got a biscuit tin with pubic hair he’s saved
From people he’s enslaved and shaved

It’s fucking freezing in his flat
He spent his Cold Weather Payment on internet scat
His wallpaper’s some bloke slapping crap up a lady’s twat

He’s got two kids in his allotment shed
But he’s not worried about them escaping – they’re already dead
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