They say Ed’s a lazy fucker
He just sits on his arse all day
Friends say he’s a dirty bastard
Who won’t even use an ashtray.
His T-shirts are soiled or split
His jeans are crusty with mould
Even his sour breath stinks like shit –
And his pants are ten days old.
Christ knows how he’s stayed so skinny
‘Cause all he ever eats is crap.
Hot or cold – in his gob it goes
As he shovels it up from his lap.
His room stinks like a tart’s boudoir
Where sad old losers hang out;
He only goes out to the pub
And the Indian for a quick take-out.
He’s big on playing the lottery
And watching the odds on Skybet
He’s an ace at online bingo –
But I’ve seen no money yet.
He’s gaming now, with some foreign bloke
Why he bothers I just don’t know
It’s more agg for his fucked-up brain
And he’ll feel shagged-out tomorrow.
He loves his scotch and his lager,
Especially in the afternoon –
But I just know he’s sincere
When he tells me he’ll cut back soon.
So Ed’s a major knobhead
And his gaff’s all covered in mould
But one thing’s not been said:
I like his shitty household!