Lyrics copied from a songbook called Snatches and Lays: Songs Miss Lilywhite Never Taught Us edited by Sebastian Hogbotel & Simon Ffuukes (Boozy Company, 1962), found at John Patrick's Drinking Songs, Folklore Dept., California State University, Fresno:


IT'S TIME THE POOR BASTARD WAS DEAD

For forty-odd years I've been buggered
With all sorts of horrible pains.
I've had every ailment I reckon
From ulcers to varicose veins.

I've spent a small fortune at chemists,
And lain months in hospital beds,
And the stuff that I've taken to shift me
Has torn my old arse-hole to shreds.

I've a neurotic nerve as a torture.
They say I've a valvular heart,
While I strain like a bloody great carthorse,
And all I squeeze out is a fart.

I've got rheumatic gout in my fingers.
It's made them all sizes and shapes,
And the piles that I have in my rectum
Hang down like a great bunch of grapes.

My diet is fuck-awful putrid.
If I have a square meal I feel sick,
And there's also a funny sensation
Like rats gnawing holes in my prick.

Uric acid they say is my trouble,
So I do not mind telling you this:
I've got to whistle "The Last Rose of Summer"
To coax the old doodle to piss.

And as for a first-class erection,
The idea is just simply absurd,
For my cock's like an under-sized maggot,
And as soft as a night-commode turd.

I spend all the day in the shit-house,
Or moaning and groaning in bed,
While my bowels simply murmur in passing:
"It's time the poor bastard was dead."