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28 Aug 10 - 04:32 PM (#2974754) Subject: Lyr Req: For forty years I've been buggered From: GUEST,shantyjohn I heard this as a monologue several years ago, can't now remember more than the first line, although varicose veins are mentioned. Can anyone help with the words please? |
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29 Aug 10 - 01:57 AM (#2974968) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: For forty years I've been buggered From: Gurney Shantyjohn, have you searched the monologues website? Google 'Monologues' or 'Make 'Em Laugh' to find the site. Can't help you any further, I'm afraid. |
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29 Aug 10 - 03:35 AM (#2974989) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: For forty years I've been buggered From: Jim Carroll Shantyjohn It's a song around this area, recorded some time in the early 1970s from an elderly local man, now long dead, who had a couple of similar ones, including The Farting Competition. The little I remember begins: This forty-five years I've been buggered, With all kinds of horrible pains, ------- From rupture to varicose veins And ends: My life it is spent in the shite-house, Or roaring and groaning in bed, And my friends say, when quietly passing, It's time that that poor whore was dead. Will sort out my recording of it and put up a transcription of the text - when I get time. Jim Carroll |
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29 Aug 10 - 06:31 AM (#2975039) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: For forty years I've been buggered From: Fred McCormick This Forty Five Years I've Been Buggared This forty five years I've been buggared With all kinds of horrible pains. And I've every ailment I reckon From ruptures to varicose veins. Arthritis with me is a hobby, I've got bunions and corns on my feet. And I seem to breed stones in my bladder Like bloody great lumps of concrete. Gastric acid they say is my trouble And I do not mind telling you this I have to whistle the last Rose of Summer To coax my old doodle to piss. So I've spent a small fortune on potions On doctors and hospital beds And the stuff that they give me to swallow Has torn my poor arsehole to shreds. And despite the advice I am taking There isn't a day I feel fit And it takes an ounce of gunpowder Before I can bloody well shit. So my time is all spent in the shitehouse Or moaning and groaning in bed. And the folks they all say as they're passing Tis time that poor old soul was dead. |
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29 Aug 10 - 08:10 AM (#2975086) Subject: Lyr Add: IT'S TIME THE POOR BASTARD WAS DEAD From: Jim Dixon 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." |
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29 Aug 10 - 08:39 AM (#2975102) Subject: Lyr Add: BUGGERED From: Jim Dixon Another version, found at another forum: BUGGERED For forty long years I've been buggered With all sorts of horrible pains. I've had every ailment I reckon From rupture to varicose veins. Neuritis with me is a hobby. I've bloody great corns on my feet, And I seem to breed stones in my bladder Like bloody great lumps of concrete. I've a sciatic nerve that's a bastard, And I'm told I have a valvular heart, And I strain like a bloody Namek* Before I can squeeze out a fart. Rheumatics and gout in my fingers Have made them all horrible shapes, And the piles I've got in my arsehole Hang down like bunches of grapes. I've spent a fortune on chemists And laid a month on hospital beds, And the stuff I've taken to shift them Has torn my arsehole to shreds. Uric acid they say is trouble, And I don't mind telling you this: I have to whistle the 'Last Rose of Summer' To coax my poor 'Super saiyajin'* to piss. I can't even sleep with Bulma*. My tool's as limp as a rag And draws itself up in my belly If anyone mentions a shag. For forty long years I've been buggered. There's never a day I've been fit. I take 22 lbs of dynamite Before I can bloody well shit. Now my time is spent in the shit house Or moaning and groaning in bed, And my 'pals' simply say when they're passing, "It's time that bastard Prince* was dead." [* These seem to be jargon words from the world of Manga/Anime. I suspect they were inserted by the person who posted this as a sort of inside joke.] |
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29 Aug 10 - 09:01 AM (#2975112) Subject: Lyr Add: BUGGERED From: Jim Dixon From "Fester," a mimeographed songbook found at The Jack Horntip Collection: FESTER 1967 Printed and published by the Society for the Promotion of Immoral Impulses and the Stamp Out Virgins Society, at their unregistered office, [...] New Zealand. New and revised Edition 1967. Copyright S. P. I. I. and S. O. V. S. 1967. Printed in New Zealand. ... BUGGERED Tune: "Botany Bay" For forty years I've been buggered With horrible aches and pains. I've had every ailment I reckon From rupture to varicose veins. [CHORUS] Singing too-ra-li-oora-li-addity, Too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-addity, Singing too-ra-li-oo-ra—li-addity, Too-ra-li-oora-li-aa. Neuritis with me is a hobby. I've bunions and corns on my feet, And I seem to bred [sic] stones in my bladder Like fuckin' great lumps of concrete. I've spent a small fortune on chemists. I've lain months in hospital beds, And the stuff I've taken to shift me Has torn my poor stomach to shreds. And In spite of the cures I'm taking, There's hardly a day I feel fit, And it takes a full pound of gunpowder Before I can bloody well shift. [sic] I've a stricture in the tube of my penis, And I don't mind tolling you this: I've to whistle "The Last Rose of Summer" To coax my poor doodle to piss. And as for a first class erection, The idea is simply absurd, For my cock's like an undersized maggot And as soft as a night commode turd. So my time's all spent in the shithouse Or moaning and groaning in bed While my friends they all murmur when passing, "It's time the poor bastard was dead." [The Jack Horntip Collection, by the way, seems to be an updated version of John Patrick's Drinking Songs, which I mentioned earlier. A better copy of "Snatches and Lays" can be found here.] |