I'm really down on dogs this week, I've had it with the Dane. I'm sick of all their guileless cheek, The way the brutes complain. It's "give me Pal for which I crave," And "walk me out", I'm like some slave, And then they jog me when I shave, I'm really down on dogs. I'm really down on fags this week, They make me choke and cough. On Thursday I could hardly speak And bits of lung dropped off. It's "stick him in the oxy-tent," And "cut his throat to make a vent," And when you ask, it's "no comment". I'm really down on fags. I'm really down on beer this week, The bugger blows me out. It's threepence up and twice as weak And bits that float about. This Fullers stuff has done the deed, My guts have really gone to seed, Can nothing stop this pressing need? (Rushes to bog) I'm really down on beer. I'm really down on luck this week, But was I ever up? If prizes were for mild and meek, I'd win each silver cup. My clothes hang ragged on my bones, I'm through with love and telephones, I'm only fit for Davey Jones, I'm really down on luck. I'm really down on toilet rolls, but that's another story...