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Coyne |
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See the red-neck climb the cobbled streets casting roses around |
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Little old ladies hang from windows tears rolling right to the ground |
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Seven men down in a hole everyone of them is dead |
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And it would have been better if he'd stayed home in his big fat bed |
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I feel sorry for that man, I know he's doing the best he can |
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He might sit at home and sip his dinner wine but God help the poor swine |
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God help the poor swine |
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Smart wife, posing and gracious [or Smart wife pours the 'Earl Gray' says] |
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"How's it going today?" |
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Chinless wonder son fusses in the hall, don't even hear his call |
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Goes to his room and lies on the bed feeling sick and low |
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Flash car in the drive, but, man alive! There's nowhere he can go |
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I feel sorry for that man, I know he's doing the best he can |
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He might sit at home and sip his dinner wine but God help the poor swine |
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God help the poor swine |
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He needs help, can't help himself |
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We feel smart cause we got roots wearing our big pit boots |
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We feel so grand, we think we understand |
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With our red, gnarled hands |
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But we don't see that an M. B. E.* can lead to grief and pain |
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Oh I love that man, I think I understand although he don't know my name |
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I feel sorry for that man |
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I know he's doing the best he can |
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He might sit at home and sip his dinner wine |
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But God help the poor swine (x2) |
