Am I too late?
'Twas there in Sydney I was doing my thing,
Relieving a bookie of the wages of sin.
A simple heist at that bookie's in Sydney
When that mutt crapped me up; he sure did, didn't he?
As I was entering the betting shop,
Face cloth-wrapped to fool any cop,
Cloth-wrapped to defy identification,
But it crapped up my powers of observation.
I was doing my business, breaking the law,
And the mutt did his business, which I never saw,
(Where was his owner with the damn pooper-scooper?)
Setting me up for Sergeant Piper, the trooper.
Off home with the swag, man, jolly, I went,
Not guessing that Piper was hot on the scent,
I sensed a vague stench, saw some stains on the floor,
Never thought that'd be what I was collared for.
The judge said ten years I'd be paying my dues,
Not so much for the theft as the poo on my shoes,
And now all my jailmates a good laugh enjoy,
And the name that they call me is ...
(wait for it)
... the crappy boy!