BREWER'S DROOP.
(Bernard Wrigley.)


Now here is a song, that's directed,
At all of you fellers that drink.
You might think it's all right to get drunk every night
But this story will make you all think.
        
'Cause I've lifted so many beer glasses,
That my back is beginning to stoop.
But what's ten times worse I've fell prey to the curse,
The disease known as 'Dread Brewer's Droop'.

It's the droop, the droop, the dread brewer's droop,
That's the cause of such dissatisfaction,
It turns young men old, makes their sex lives grow cold,
'Cause they can't put their thoughts into action.

I've supped beer 'till it's come out me earholes,
And now my one awful regret is,
That once it stood hard, like a Grenadier Guard,
But now it's just like a wet lettuce.
        
Well I've done many things to arouse it,
To get it to lift up it's head.
But it hangs like an old strangled ferret,
That some bugger nailed to a shed.
        
Well I've sprayed it with starch and with lacquer,
I've cursed, even sworn and blasphemed.
Last week, in a tantrum, I sung T'National Anthem,
But it wouldn't stand up for 'The Queen.'
        
In desperation I tried levitation,
To see if the bugger would rise.
'Though I set it on fire, it won't go no higher,
It just brings the tears to my eyes.
        
Last night, when I took off my trousers,
And as I slid into my bed.
I could see the wife wearing black armbands,
As a sign of respect for the dead.

So you've heard my sad tail, now it's over,
How my love life's been blighted by booze.
'Cause once it was proud it reached up to my cap,
But now it just points at my shoes.