G# D# A#m
I must be going
soft, or I'm turning paranoid,
Its been over a week since I went out with the boys
I've not been down the football, I've missed two stoppy-backs
I haven't been disgusting when I'm chatting-up the crack
I've not been sick or waved me dick at fanny in the street
Poured bitter down me arsehole or drank a pint of piss
Or slashed through letterboxes, ate kebabs and puked them up
Then I found this old phone number and I thought:
"Oh what the fuck- I'll ring it up."
"Help me Mr
Methane, what the bollocks can I do?"
His secretary says she's got the Kremlin on line two,
And Maggie Thatcher's got a problem with the TUC
And Mr Methane's sorting out the German Unity
I said: "Sod the Bank of England and the economy,
Hang the commie bastards, twat the EEC,
I've got a problem with my beer and sex and chips n gravy
And I haven't beat a poof up since a week last Saturday,
Haven't had a shag since Tuesday, (I forgot to throw her out)
I only drank ten pints last night (its practically nowt)
The secretary says: "I see, I'll get him for you fast!"
Mr Methane came, picked up the phone, and offered his advice
With a blast........
I slammed the
phone down, pegged it down the local like a shot,
Drinking beer like something that drinks beer a fucking lot
Rammed me knob right down the gob of the nearest bird to me
Took her back, filled her crack, then said: "You've got HIV,
But don't worry, if you hurry, there's a number you can call,
He sorts out massive problems, and viruses are small,
So fuck off to the phonebox, slag, or I'll give you the boot,
She rang up Mr Methane and he cured her instantly....
With a poot.
If you've got
a cough, your bitter's off, or you just can't get dead pissed,
Got no fags, the wife's a drag, kidnapped by terrorists,
Or something's wrong with the plane you're on and its crashing in
Call up Mr Methane, he's cured AIDs and dysentry,
Famines, floods and tidal waves and cancer of the heart
And he'll even tell you who will win the two o'clock at York....
With a fart.
©1990 The Macc
N.B.- In live
performances and on the recording, all bottom burps and rectal rasps
were real and genuine, produced by Mr Methane himself. We cannot,
however, be held responsible for any damaging physical or psychological
effects that these trouser coughs might produce.