THE SUNDAY PAPERS
Tune - Johnny Lad

Well on a Sunday morning I never seem to wake
Till I hear the newsboy's whistle down at the garden gate
And I tremble with excitement when I hear him at the door
And I hear the papers falling down upon the hallway floor
There's the Mirror and the People the News of the World
The Times and the Observer all lie there neatly furled
I clutch them in my trembling hand as back to bed I fly
And I flop down on my pillow with a deep contented sigh.

CHORUS
So read the Sunday papers for all kinds of banality
For every kind of horridness from fraud to bestiality
Its there you'll find the models, the starlets and the rapers
The scoutmasters and murderers all in your Sunday papers

First I read the dirty stories of the schoolmasters and vicars
The goings on up Soho and the bloke who pinches knickers
And when I've had my fill of divorce and sexual crimes
I read the fashion bits in the Observer and the Times
There's kinky leather nighties and see-through plastic bras
And knitted wire bikinis that will show up half your scars
There's cellophane pyjamas that shows it nearly all
So I cut them out with scissors and I paste them on my wall

But the bits I like the best, the bits I like the most
Are all the small advertisements for things you get by post
You can purchase handmade corsets or see-through plastic suits
Or second hand, part worn US Army marching boots
There's bloomers, postmen's overcoats and folding garden shears
For colonic irrigation or a thing for picking pears
Advice on family planning or a book of kiddies names
There's something there for everyone no matter what your game

CHORUS

When on last Sunday morning as I lay upon my bed
And gentle dreams of orgies were drifting through my head
I'd been through all the small ads the sporting page as well
I was starting on the book reviews when someone rang my bell
And there stood Margaret Thatcher in violet fishing boots
And a pair of navy knickers with a see-through plastic suit
I stood there staring stupid just like I'd seen a ghost
When she cried "Express delivery. Did you order me by post?"
Well at last the spell broke, I dragged her through the door
I tore off all the postage stamps and laid her on the floor
I undid all the wrappings, unknotted all the strings
I was starting on the contents when again the doorbell rings

And there stood the vicar, his face all flushed and red
In a knitted wire bikini with a scout hat on his head
"I've been watching you across the street", he cried, "You filthy swine."
Through my naval surplus gunsight (plus postage one pound nine
I tried to slam the door on him, alas it did no good
He whipped out his Black and Decker drill and whittled through the wood
With his electric tater peeler he made passes at my head
So I took my taters out of sight and dodged behind the bed
His left hand grabbed my gizzard with his folding garden shears
And his right hand gripped my whatnots with his thing for picking pears
And when I thought I'd had it, I'd lose them or I'd choke
When he squeezed on his pear picker I fell off my bed and woke.

CHORUS.