I know an old guy called Pip,
The postman makes him growl, howl and spit.
His hair’s glowing white and he loves a good fight,
In the park, where he likes to keep fit.
My mum says, that he’s not hygienic,
You would agree, if you’d ever seen it.
It’s not a nice sound, when it drops to the ground,
To make it worse, he reverses and pees on it.
Pip has a job digging ditches,
My dad says his friends are all bitches.
But they’re all quite polite, when he goes out at night,
And rarely come’s home needed stitches.
When I stop to think about it,
There are some things about Pip that don’t fit.
He doesn’t wear any pants, and can burst into a dance,
If thrown, a slipper, a ball or a stick.
Old Pip, likes his food really big,
He just eats and he eats like a pig.
But he’s a bit round the bend,
You might think he’s your friend,
Then he’ll savage your face for a twig.
Pip goes mad in a car,
You don’t even need to drive far,
Barking orders around,
To wind windows down,
White hair blowing up to the stars.
Old Pip is an awful disgrace,
With mud on his beard and his face,
But if I started again, I’d be more like him,
Now his nuts are kept in a case.
