There’s panic in the fridge.
January’s gone titanic
An’ you’re standing on the bridge.
Chest is empty, parrots flown,
All you’ve got is Jack.
That fiver borrowed, from Mrs. Hubbard,
She wants if fucking back.
But! Me hearties, think on these;
Whilst staring into choppy seas,
You’ve got a cabin, a deck to swab,
A drink of rum after ya job,
A gaff, first mate, a bath, some
Clean an’ proper clothing.
The bats you clock around your block,
Are just your fear and loathing,
So park yer gob and start your boots,
You’ll find, that sympathy lacks surprise,
So look at it with worldly eyes,
Clean your periscope myopic,
‘Cos compared to most folk
‘Round the world,
Your woe is microscopic.