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Alone and pointless by her mouldering self |
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She stares at the tin of sardines on the shelf |
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By a paraffin lamp in a dingy brown room |
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Gran sits and broods in the thickening gloom |
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It's a gloom that congeals; it's so greasy and thick |
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You could cut into strips and roast on a stick |
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And hand round to friends but there's nobody there |
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Just Gran, on her own, in a miserable chair |
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So don't point it at me |
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Point it at Gran |
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She needs it more than I do |
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And more than Princess Anne |
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When Princess Anne's eighty-two |
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And living in a one room flat in Hackney |
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Maybe she could do with a bit as well |
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Don't point it at me |
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Don't point it at yourself |
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Just point it at Gran |
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And the sardines on the shelf |
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Don't point it at me |
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I've had more than enough |
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Just point it at Gran |
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She could do with plenty of stuff |
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Don't point it at me |
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Point it at Gran |
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Well, it could be a firehose |
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Or it could be a flan |
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Now some people are happy |
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And some people are bored |
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And some people are left |
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And completely ignored |
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So why should your life end on a dismal note? |