THE COCKEREL SONG
There was a club (“Rumours” in Blackpool) where they regularly play this record and a naked man runs along the bar, inadequately concealing his nodger with a rubber chicken. Beat that, Bruce Springsteen!
Some folks like a pussy, a budgie or a tit
Some take up with a Spaniel pup
That fills up the house with sh*t
Myself now I keep chickens
And I’ve a favourite one
He’s Dick my little cockerel
And I don’t know where he’s gone
Has anyone seen my cock
My big Rhode Island Red
He’s mostly pink with a little bit of blue
And purple on his head
He stands straight up in the morning
And he gives my wife a shock
Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
He’s a stiff necked little upstart
And I’ve known him all my life
He’s my pride and pleasure
And a torment to my wife
Sometimes he’s magnificent
And sometimes small and thin
But he puffs up like a pigeon
When you tickle him under his chin
Has anyone seen my cock
My big Rhode Island Red
He’s mostly pink with a little bit of blue
And purple on his head
He stands straight up in the morning
And he gives my wife a shock
Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
He has two enormous wattles hanging down
They’re the best you’ll ever find
Madam, you may stroke him if you like
If you feel that way inclined
Be careful he doesn’t spit in your eye though
Has anyone seen my cock
My big Rhode Island Red
He’s mostly pink with a little bit of blue
And purple on his head
He stands straight up in the morning
And he gives my wife a shock
Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen my cock
Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen his cock
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
MY SHIRT COLLAR (It Won’t Go Stiff)
Some folks croon about moon and June
Some folks scream and holler
But I’m going to sing about a wonderful thing
My shirt collar
Ariba, ariba, whoo, whoo, Here we go…
My shirt collar
My shirt collar
It won’t go stiff
No, it won’t go stiff
It used to stand up and touch my ears
But now I’ve got to be careful in case it disappears
When I was younger it was up in a jiff
Were it more rigid it would be terrif’
But my shirt collar
My shirt collar, whoo whoo, oh no
It will not go stiff
It won’t go stiff, no it won’t go stiff
It’s once proud rigidity is only a myth
The miserable thing I am holding in my hand which is
Limper than the lettuce in yer British Rail sandwiches
What was once a certainty is only an ‘if’
Bang goes the happiness, me joi-de-life
‘Cause my shirt collar, whoo whoo, oh no
It will not go stiff
Well I soaked it, doped it, tied it up and roped it
Varnished it but still it ends up bent
I’ve stuffed it into kettles, I’ve walloped it with metals
I’ve squirted it with aftershave and filled it with cement
My shirt collar
My shirt collar
It won’t go stiff
No, it won’t go stiff
I used to dress so it protruded at a rakish angle
But now I keep it covered up and all it does is dangle
It was up like a rocket on November the fifth
But it hasn’t happened since and the ladies just sniff
My shirt collar
My shirt collar, whoo whoo, oh no
It will not go stiff
With The Atomic Piles
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
SOUTHERN BREEZE
Mah name’s Pierre Foofe, Ah come from Montmartre
Ah play ze Moulin Rouge, Ah’m a famous French fartre
Ah stands on ze stage, Ah whistle and hum
Ah make animal noises through ze hole in mah bum
Whizza bugle or flute, Ah can play any theme
from God Save ze Weasel to Pop Goes ze Queen
Ah can trumpet or whisper whizout loosing mah breath
mah songs zey have pongs for ze sake of ze deaf
A poem Ah’ll recite, demonstrating mah art
illustrated by noises straight from ze heart
Avez-vous ze cabbage, ze baked beans? Merci!
Un moment, s’il-vous plait
Ah wake up in ze morning and when Ah bend over
Is my faithful dog Rover
And zen in ze bathroom, each morn’ wizout fail
Mah puss’ cat, Ah’ve stood on his tail
Ze maid brings me breakfast of baked beans and pears
And when Ah ‘ave dined, Ah walk down ze stairs
From mah window Ah see a small duck walking by
And above is a cuckoo, who sings in ze sky
Ah walk down ze path through ze old creaking gate
And ‘ere comes a chicken who seems rather irate
Farmer Giles with his chainsaw is cutting down trees
And zen he sits among ze cabbage and peas
His Mary, from ze dairy, she make mah ‘eart throb
She watching ze bull and ze cow on ze job
Ah walk up to her and Ah tip’a mah hat
“Madamoiselle”, Ah say, “Ah wish zat ah was doing zat”
She turns and replies in tones sweet and refined
“Well, why don’t you then, I’m sure the cow won’t mind”
Zis iz’a some of your English’a humour, non? Sacre-bleu! Merde!
Ah could live in your eyes, Ah say, each one’s a bright one
She say “You be quite at home there, there’s a sty in the right one”
At zis gay badinage Ah laugh like a jackass
Pass by faithful Rover and kick him in ze knackers
Ah what ‘appiness life in ze countryside arouses
Ah! Oo! Quelle dommage! Excusez-moi –
Ah must’a change mah trousers
Oh! Frappe un lumiére!
Ivor Biggun presents Pierre Foofe and The Vol-Au-Vents
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
a) THE BURGLARS HOLLER
Ivor, Ivor, Ivor, Ivor
Ivor, sing you bugger, sing
With The Red-Nosed burglars
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
b) GUMS AND PLUMS
Oh my name is Ivor Biggun
And they say I’ve never been kissed
My sex life took one hell of a knock
On the day I broke my wrist
I much prefer hand shandy to the company of lasses
Everybody says that I’ll go blind
But I’ll do it ’til I need glasses
Oh whoa my name is Ivor Biggun and
I sing about tits and bums
(His name is Biggun and he sings of tits and bums)
Whoa whoa whoa whoa, you know my name you’d better
Get your gums around my plums
My name is Ivor Biggun
I’m disgusting and obscene
I blow my nose without a hankie
And my fingernails aren’t clean
I’m public enema number one
I have effluence and style
My ‘je ne sais quoi’ is obvious
It sticks out a mile
Whoa whoa, my name is Ivor Biggun and
I’m dark and dirty as a dungeon
(His name is Biggun and he’s dirty as a dungeon)
Whoa whoa whoa now you know my name you’d better
Make a luncheon of my truncheon
Well you don’t have to be a space invader
To suffer from asteroids
Don’t need to show Mrs. Thatcher my willie
For her to look down on the unemployed
And you don’t have to be a sergeant
To stand your privates out in front
And you don’t have to be a gynecologist
To recognise a country squire at the hunt
Well my name is Ivor Biggun
But some dispute that fact
And they suggest I contravene
The trade descriptions act
But my girl said she’s marry me
If I had a twelve inch dong
I said “I’ll cut it down to any size luv
If you think that it’s too long”
Whoa whoa, my name is Ivor Biggun and
I got my mojo workin’ well
(He sings The Wanker’s Song and stuff like Eskimo Nell)
Now you know my name I’d better
Press your button and ring your bell
You don’t have to squirt your armpit to say aerosols to you
You don’t have to be a carpenter to bang and hammer and screw
Don’t piss the wrong way in a hurricane
If you don’t know how to duck
And you shouldn’t work in a massage parlour
If you can’t give a toss or a fuck (sorry Mrs. Whitehouse)
Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun
Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun
Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun, Ivor Biggun
Ooh I think I’ve ruptured m’self
I’m Britain’s champion wanker
Renowned throughout the land
Everybody knows my name
But nobody wants to shake my hand
Whoa whoa, my name is Ivor Biggun and
I sing about tits and bums
(His name is Biggun and he takes it as it comes)
Whoa whoa whoa, now you know my name you’d better
Get your gums around my plums
With The Ivor’s Jivers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
JOHN THOMAS ALLCOCK
John Thomas Allcock, he lives northeast of Whitstable
He’s got that certain something that the girls find irresistable
He’s a fine up-standing fellow and they say, for what it’s worth
His mother was frightened by a donkey six months before his birth
And when the midwife heaved him out the first thing she could seize on
It wasn’t his arm, it wasn’t his leg and I guess that that’s the reason
Why he’s the…
Man with the biggest plonker in the world
(Dingle, dangle, strap it to your ankle)
He keeps it in his trousers tightly curled
(Dingle, dangle, strap it to your ankle)
It’s a yard and a half if it’s an inch and it’s more when it’s unfurled, oh
He’s the man with the biggest plonker in the world
As you can imagine, it was an enormous drawback. Well… part of it was, anyway
John Thomas Allcock, at school the kids all gathered round
And said “Please tell us what is that behind you dragging on the ground?”
He said it was a python, and it had got the mumps
He stuffed it in his ear and said “I am a petrol pump”
He stuffed it down his wellies and the teacher said “Now, John
You’ll have to stay behind when all the other kids have gone”
A really boring thing about school mistresses is they make you do it again and again until you get it right, and they make you put your hand up
John Thomas Allcock, he grew up virile, tall and strong
And he became a chimney sweep with a brush attached to his remarkable dong
Then he went to China, where dragons can be found
And everybody said “‘Ere look, there’s a chap with one draggin’ on the ground”
(Hahahaha! Get it, one draggin’ on the ground? Oh, please yourself then.)
And then he got married and he had five kids and it comes as no surprise
He’s a lovely wife with a rather strange expression in her eyes
And it’s not surprising really, ’cause she’s married to…
The man with the biggest plonker in the world
(Dingle, dangle, strap it to your ankle
) He keeps it in his trousers tightly curled
(Dingle, dangle, strap it to your ankle)
It’s a yard and a half if it’s an inch and it’s more when it’s unfurled, oh
He’s the man with the biggest plonker in the world
He was a champion pole vaulter – with or without a pole
Was he heavily penalized? Oh, indubitably!
John Thomas Allcock he died, oh yes he did
And because of rigor mortis they couldn’t shut the coffin lid
And now he’s up in heaven and his kids are very proud
To see their daddy’s dongler dangling through the clouds
When it’s dark at midnight you can hear the ladies sigh
And whistle when the ghost of old John Tom goes shuffling by
‘Cos he’s…The man with the biggest plonker in the world…
Monstrous, I call it. He shouldn’t have had a thing like that without a license.
I said to my wife, I think he should be bloody well hung.
And you know what she said? “He is, my dear, he is…”
With Bunty And The Bangers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
I HAVE A DOG HIS NAME IS ROVER
This used to be a short traditional song, but Ivor has… er… extended it, so it’s now something long and rude that Rugger-Buggers can entertain one another with in the showers.
I have a dog his name is Rover
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog his name is Rover
Ee by gum!
I have a dog his name is Rover
When he shits he shits all over
Shit all ’round the room, me boys
Shit all ’round the room
I have a dog his name is Fritz
Oh my goodness!
I have a sausage dog his name is Fritz
Ee by gum!
I have a dog his name is Fritz
He shits and shits and shits and shits
Shit all ’round the room, me boys
Shit all ’round the room
I have a dog a big Great Dane
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog a big Great Dane
Ee by gum!
I have a dog a big Great Dane
He wipes his b*m and he pulls the chain
Shit all ’round the room, me boys
Shit all ’round the room
Traditional arranged by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
MY BROTHER’S MAGAZINE
Oh show me a home where the buffalo roam
And I’ll show you a house full of dung…
For god’s sake Ivor, did I spend three years at the Paris Conservetoire to play this sort of rubbish? Don’t you know anything else?
My brother’s in the merchant navy
He brings me things from where he’s been
Letters from France and caps from Holland
And once from Denmark a mucky magazine
And I remembered mother’s advice
If I ever looked at photographs that weren’t quite nice
I’d turn to stone right there
Part of me did but I just didn’t care
And I’ll bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
I bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
‘Ere, is this photograph the right way up?
Spotty-arsed fellas and great big women
At it like knives on battered settees
And two blokes from Tottenham who can tie a knot in ’em
And still have donglers to their knees
And a picture of utter depravity
A dentist filling quite the wrong cavity
A midget with a tattooed dong
And the words and ukelele chords for an Ivor biggun song
A lady you can see isn’t really a blonde
Posing with a parsnip very biological
Another who grins from where she had twins
Not pornographic, just gynecological
And a lingum and a yoni, two Egyptian women and a shetland pony
Appliances and PVC and something that looks a bit like a coconut to me
And I’ll bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
I bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
If I ever grow up I’d like to be like
A pink pony poser pay for intercourse
With me rocks off knocks off without taking socks off
A big John Thomas like the milkman’s horse
Latex genitalia, something filled with batteries that’s popular with sailors
A picture that leaves no doubt
As to whether Linda Lovelace really had her tonsils out
And I’ll bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
I bet you a quid that you’ve never seen
Anything like my brother’s magazine
‘Ere there’s a book in here advertised. It’s called
“I tried to be a homosexual but I was only half in Ernest”
There’s a stripper as well, also, with a 73″ bust.
She doesn’t have much of an act.
She just crawls onto the stage and tries to stand up.
Here’s an advert. “They all laughed when I sat down to play then I realised I’d left the bathroom door open. And then there’s some obscene records. Who’s this Judge Dread then?
“I used to kiss you on the lips but now it’s all over.”
“I will love you when you get old. So please get ‘old of this.”
And what’s this a photograph of? Oooh It can’t be? It couldn’t be? It isn’t is it?
With The Beggars Banquet All-Stars
Produced by John Spencer
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
RICHARD THE THIRD (He’s In The Business Now)
“Is she really going out with him?”
“There she is, let’s ask her”
“Betty, is it true he’s got reproductive organs like a rhionosterus?”
“That’s quite preposterous! By the way, what are all those seagulls doing in here?”
“I don’t know. Betty, what’s his name?”
His name was Stanley
He was so strong and manly
But left without saying a word
But since everybody pooed on him
He’s got a brand pseudonym
And now he’s called Richard the Turd
He was straining in the throne room
On a blunt, tony torpedo
He was not privy to the fact the seat was loose
Then he fell right down the plumbin’
Through the place you put your bum in
And flushed with pride he floated down the sluice
It was dark down there
Through the narrow pipes he wriggled
‘Til he came to where the khaki river flows
Through a fragrant tide of ooze
And a million number twos
He swam slowly
‘Cause he had to hold his nose
“Why didn’t he shout for help?”
“It would have been impolite to speak with his mouth full”
So he’s going through the motions in the dark and lumpy pools
By the brown and heaving ocean since he fell between two stools
He’s in the business deep in caverns measureless to man
Stan – Stan – Stan Winterbottom it was
The man, the man, who fell down the pan
He was a gynecologist, in Rotherham
From bog forever umber
From sea to shining seashore
He considered people’s doings
As they floated by
He reviewed the human species
As he drifted through their faeces
Life’s strains he viewed with philosophic eye
We are all just turds
And the world’s a pile of doodie
And life is just a journey down the sewer
But a man can struggle through
And face his Waterloo
And a rose smells sweetly
When it’s growing in manure
“And in that one moment everything he’d left behind him passed before his eyes”
So he went through the motions and he swam the fetid pools
Past the oceans with no deckchairs but an awful lot of stools
And he squeezed back up the dungpipe round the bend where Harpic goes
And said “Dear friends, I’m back again!”
And everybody held their nose! (Hardly surprising, really)
“Flippin’eck – here come all those seagulls again”
I ran up to Stanley, I wanted to wipe away all memory of his movements down there in the bowels of the earth
I told him I’d thought of him every day he’d been (interred) in-turd, but he pushed me away
“Darling, what’s wrong, are you dysentery-ested in me?” He looked at me, and I’ll never forget the words he said
“Betty, when I was down there I discovered the meaning of life Don’t force me into a marriage of convenience, I’ve just come out of the closet”
with The Burglarettes and Miss Amelia Blowhard
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
WINKING YOUR BLUES AWAY (misprint)
All those lonely blues songs, you might feel that you wrote ’em
You might be sad and think that life has kicked you in the scrotum
Be brave and wipe that teardrop from your eye
there’s one more remedy you can try
Wanking your blues away
Wanking your blues away
If you haven’t had a promise
And you haven’t got a sister or a wife
And your brother’s not keen
You can get to the promised land
The answer’s right there in your hand
Try wanking to the rhythm of life
It’s a source of some amusement
that the craft of self-abusement
was invented, so it’s thought
by the Greeks and the Westphalians
perfected by Australians
developed by the Welsh into a competitive sport
Wanking your blues away
Wanking your blues away
Shirt on the floor
One hand and a metronome
And lots of boogie-woogie
The Cowman sits there on his farm
With loads of blisters on his arm
Wanking ’til the cows come home
It’s time to take your trousers down
Lock the door and go to town
You can wipe away your frown and wank your blues away
Don’t worry that you’ll lose your sight
Make the world seem gay and bright
WANKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE and wank your blues away
Wanking your blues away
Wanking your blues away
It’s a harmless hobby, it’s what your right arm’s for
And not for drinking lager
The basic kit for masturbation
Is a plonker and a hand and imagination
Keep wanking ’til you just can’t wank no more
But don’t forget to close the bathroom door
ARE ‘MICE’ ELECTRIC?
Ivor Biggun presents Uncle Hans Von Trapp and The Mice-Tersingers. Featuring rude rodents and swearing.
Hello children, how do you do?
I’ve brought some friends to sing for you
Mein singing mice I’ve brought along
To sing ein little mousey song
So mein mouses don’t be slow
Sing along und here we go
Can little mousey pull ze pud’
Yes we can it does us good
Do little mice have tiny dongs
Yes they’re only one inch long
Zat’s not much to wave about
It’s more than you, you daft old c*nt
Stick to ze script boys
Why do mouseys sing so high
‘Cause we’re so fucking sore, that’s why
Is it just ’cause you’re so small
Yes we all have … balls
Would you like to meet mein cat
No fuck off you silly old twat
Now zen boys, you’ll never be as famous as Punky and Porky if you keep swearing
What do mouseys love to eat
Spotted dick and shredded wheat
In the pantry no-one sees
We piss in the jam and crap on the cheese
Now zen boys that’s quite enough
Oh fuck off you dozy old poof
I’m beginning to lose mein temper!
Up your arse you … old git
We’ll fill your larder up with shit
We’ll fight and fart and do as we please
We’ll fuck in the bread-bin and steal your cheese
Scnitzel I am a silly goose
Mein pussycat has just got loose…
Go cat go! There is your favourite food… mouseburger
Auf wiedersehn children if you please
And as for the mouseys, hard cheese
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
I CAN BE THE HOT DOG AND YOU CAN BE THE BUN
I’m 37, I’m still living with me mum
I’ve no pals now my guinea-pig’s dead
And my dad needs my room to grow mushrooms
So I suppose that it’s time I was wed
Now you don’t sweat much for a fat lass
And I hear you’ve a rich mum and dad
And in the dark, with the light right behind you
You really don’t look quite that bad
And that’s why I wrote you this meaningful melody
OK lads, three chords in the key of A – let’s put some spunk into it…
I can be the hot-dog and you can be the bun
I can be the ramrod and you can be the gun
I can be the cistern if you will pull my chain
I can be the dyno-rod if you will be the drain
I’ll even be the daddy and you can be the mum
I can be the suppository and you can be the bum
But I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
It’s one of life’s little mysteries
No I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
Oh cruel fate
I can be the christmas fairy you can be the tinsel
I can be the athletes foot and you can be the plimsol
I can be the landlord’s thumb and you can be the drink
I can be the plunger and you can be the sink
I will be the dentist if you will open wide
I can be the vet’s rubber glove and you can be the cow’s backside
But I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
Dear Anna Raeburn, what am I doing wrong?
No I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
I’ve got the brylcreem bounce
You can be the sandwich I can be the lemon curd
You can be the WC and I can be the turd
I can be the rupture and you can be the truss
You can be the pimple and I can be the puss
You can be the vomit bag and I can be the sick
You can be the Y-fronts and I can be the … what’s this word?
I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
I’ve got me own teeth and a motorbike and sidecar
No I can’t understand (no he can’t understand)
No I can’t understand why women don’t like me
Me me me…
I can be the finger and you can be the pie
I can be the porker and you can be the sty
I can be the writing if you will be the wall
I can do the breaststroke if you will do the crawl
You can be the racing car and I can be James Hunt
I can be the sailor and you can be the.. What’s this word?
Mr. Biggun, the word is punt!
Are you sure?
I can be the stone and you can be the kidney
You can be the choirboy and I can be my rather strange uncle Sidney
But if your heart should chance resist my subtlety and charms
And my suave sophistication fails to bring you to my arms
You’d be the wild and lovely girl I’d lost before she’d grown
And you will be a memory and I will be…
Probably going down the pub. There’s a darts match on at The Swan in Fulham Broadway…
Or I might go to the pictures and see Clit Eastwood… or ‘Danish Dentist On The Job’…
Or I might go and stare at the nurses playing tennis…
Or I might go and get some Algerian Scotch whiskey from the off-license and get comode-hugging drunk…
Or I might go and stick me dong thru somebody’s letter-box
With Ivor’s Jivers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
I WANNA BE A BEAR
Stand by – ethnic bear skanking…
Wanna be a bear and live in the wood
Eat a whole lot of honey make me feel good
I wanna be a bear living wild and free
Eating shrubs and berries, scratch my back on a tree
I wanna be a bear
Whoa yeah, Bo Diddley bear
I a grizzly bear
I wanna be a bear be wild and rough
In a big fur coat I’m gonna strut my stuff
When i come home and I feel almost dead
I need a whole lot of Goldilock in my bed
I wanna be a bear
Whoa yeah, Bo Diddley bear
I a grizzly bear
I wanna be, wanna wanna be, a bear
I wanna be living wild, living free
I wanna be just a little baby bear and me
I strictly bear I are, smarter than the average
I strictly bear I are
Don’t wanna be ferocious wanna do my thing
Gonna hibernate go to sleep ’til spring
Rock steady teddy live a life of ease
Groovin’ with the birdies in the sycamore trees
Be a bear, Bo Diddley bear
I a grizzly bear
Wanna… be a bear
Don’t wanna be no Smokey bear
Don’t wanna be no Biffo the bear
I smarter than the average bear
Don’t wanna be no Barney the bear
With Bunty and The Bangers
Produced by Richard Stevens
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
AH WOKE UP DIS MOANIN’ (parts 1 and 2)
Part 1 Terrific Teddy Sings The Blues
Ladies and Gentlemen… Terrific Teddy sings the blues… Tell it like it is Ted
Sing the blues, Ted… Smash it to ’em Ted… go Ted go…
I woke up this morning (that makes a change)
Yes and I believe I shit the bed (ahh I don’t know why we fucking bother…)
With The Swampland Serenaders
Part 2 Ah Feel So Bad
Whooee here we go… You ain’t too old if you ain’t too ashamed
Well I feel so bad, somebody done bulldozed the whorehouse down
Well I feel so bad, somebody done bulldozed the whorehouse down
They used to call it the tandoori take-away, it sold the hottest stuff in town
Well there was thirty guinea Winnie, there was twenty guinea Sue
And there was bargain basement Bertha who’d do three for the price of two
There was horizontal Harriet who’d give you change from a quid
And if you were low ‘n’ lonesome there was luncheon voucher Sid
Well I feel so bad, somebody done bulldozed the…
I used to go there Friday evening and stay ’til Sunday night
Come first thing Monday morning I surely don’t feel right
So I go down to the doctor, this is what the doctor say
You’ve got a nasty little blister, son, that will not go away
Well I feel so bad, somebody done bulldozed the whorehouse down
They used to call it the tandoori take-away, it sold the hottest stuff in town
But they never let a po’ boy down…
With Doncaster Slim and The Cleethorpes Delta Boys
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
THE FILTHY FARMER (A Song Of The Soil)
Gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
I’m a filthy farmer and I don’t give a.. fiddle-de-de
I’ve got a lovely set of bullocks and I’m up to me eyes in muck
So gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
Jack my pig, he’s ever so big, I feeds him caster oil
He burps and he farts and then he starts to fertilise the soil
Some folks say he is just like me, I think they must be mad
His eyes are smaller and I’m a bit taller
and Jack doesn’t smell quite so bad
Gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
I’m a filthy farmer and I don’t give a.. fiddle-de-de
I’ve got a lovely set of bullocks and I’m up to me eyes in muck
So gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
Parson Grey came ’round one day and he strolled into the dairy
Looked all about and pulling on a cow was my little milkmaid Mary
“You must be proud” said the parson out loud, “Of wonderful udders like those”
“How does she yeild?” I said “Twice on the field
And the cow’s not bad either, I suppose”
Gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey (gobble gobble)
Wanka goes the duck (wanka wanka)
I’m a filthy farmer and I don’t give a fiddler’s pluck
You should see my smallholding i’m up to me eyes in muck
So gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
I’ve got a bull called Maurice but I think he’s a bit like that
So I made a date for the artificial inseminator, the bull and the bowler hat
The fellow came down gave squirt all ’round and then he’s on his way
The cows got the hump ’cause a bicycle pump ain’t as good as the old fashioned way
‘ere, look at all those heffers in the field over there
The vet gave m’ sheep an aphrodisiac to make the ewes feel randy
It worked like a charm and the sheep went barmy and the poor old ram’s gone bandy
I said to the missus what a fine thing this is, what can them tablets be
She said I don’t know dear but come over here ’cause they tasted like cough-drops to me
Gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
I’m a filthy farmer and I don’t give a.. fiddle-de-de
You should see my smallholding i’m up to me eyes in muck
So gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
Gobble gobble gobble goes the turkey and
Wanka wanka wanka goes the duck
With The Red-Nosed Burglars
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
THE OTHER EDUCATED MONKEY (Humourous Monologue)
My mother likes family reunions
Last Wednesday my sister came calling
With her husband Keith who’s all kneecaps and teeth
And little Billy who’s simply appalling
He’s about as much fun as cystitis
He’s a fouth-mouthed vindictive young skiver
But Mum said “Listen you, take the child to the zoo”
And young Billy said “Thanks Uncle Ivor”
Well three Mars bars later we got to the bus
He had four sausage rolls on the train
And a cornet or two; then he spewed in the queue for the zoo and was hungry again
So I showed him the llamas, the seals and iguanas
The ocelot, wombat and stoat
With a nose full of finger he seemed reluctant to linger
And he weren’t interested in ‘owt
I said “Oh what a drag you are
Come and look at the jaguar
And the panda, it seems almost human”
He said “It’s no small surprise,
the black rings round its eyes make it look a bit like Gary Numan”
Well I remembered the story of Albert
Who was ate by a lion it’s told
So I left little William by the tigers’ pavilion
And round to the monkeys I strolled
There was one great big monkey who sat by himself
I mused is he chimp or gorilla?
He basked in the sun as he munched on a bun
And was reading the Daily Mirror
I looked at the monkey and he looked at me
There were nobody there but us two
I winked and he winked
And I waved and he waved
And he looked and he said “I know you”
“You’re that fella who plays ukulele
And follows a wanker’s career
My friends the baboons know all of your tunes
We’ve got all your records in here”
I said “Hang on a minute, here’s a cage and you’re in it, and you’re talking”
And the monkey said “Aye”
“How on earth can you do it?”
He said “Son there’s nowt to it, but I don’t do it much ‘cos I’m shy”
I said “Eee by heck, does the keeper know that you can talk?”
He said “Nay and theres one thing for sure
he’s not going to neither ‘cos he’d just take a breather and leave me to do the guided tour”
“But a monkey who talks is fantastic”, said I
“Let me tell the whole world right away
You could be a celebrity .. and meet Russell Harty. You’d be famous” But the monkey said “Nay”
“I’ve seen quite sufficient of that there outside world on a TV the keeper installed
And you can stick your urban culture up the oviduct of a vulture
‘Cos I don’t think much to it at all”
“Mind you .. I never thought much to the jungle as such
Dark and steamy and pissing wet through
So one day I thought I’ve had enough, Ill write to David Attenborough
And I finished up here in the zoo”
“I’ve got six wives, a warm cage, free dinners, the papers
I’m happy and safe from the hunters
And it really is grand to crap in your hand
And fling it through the bars at the punters”
“I eat when Im hungry, I drink when Im dry
Pull my pudding when I feel inclined
It’s a real gravy train, but I cant say the same
For the world that you buggers designed”
“Injustice, corruption, pollution, Max Bygraves
Intolerance and capitalist enslavlerment
Downing Streets barmy residents and B-movie presidents
And poodle crap all over the pavements”
“Jehovah’s sodding witnesses banging on doors
Jack mopeds that sound like a Stuka
And Australians who wander around pissed and chunder
On the table when you’re trying to play snooker.”
“Jumped up hi-fi salesmen who call you Sir, when what they mean really is twat
Kids who crayon on cars, I can piss through the bars on the whole bloody miserable lot”
“The unspeakable horror of a family Christmas
Incidents down at the Palais when a 7-foot tall skinhead comes up to you and says
“Here, four-eyes, have you been staring at my girlfriend?”
You say “No, of course not”
He says “So, you prat, you think there is something wrong with her do you?”
And you end up with a mouthful of fist
“Far away from the rabble, we sit and play scrabble, or cribbage, or Cluedo, or whist
We do amateur Gilbert and Sullivan, a philosophical discussion or two I might put up my feet and idly complete the crossword the keeper can’t do”
Of course during the day, we put on a show for the public, you know wanking and defaecation
But when they’ve all pissed off home, we’re left on our own for an evening of fun and recreation”
“We do pottery, Kung-Fu, darts and yoga. Charabanc trips on holidays and high days
Or we go round in gangs to the orang-utans because it’s wife-swapping Wednesdays and Fridays”
And then he looked past me and he swivelled his eyes and whispered “Eh up, dont say ‘owt”.
For coming in view was my little nephew and I went and shook him warmly by the throat
“Look at that funny monkey” said William
“Weren’t the lions hungry?” I replied and gripping his mitt which was covered with… jam
I lead the young hooligan outside
Now it could have been my imagination because it had been a long afternoon
But did I hear a voice say, as we wandered away “Ta’ra lad then, see thee soon”
Now all the way back I was thinking. When I got home I’d made up my mind
Life’s a pain in the dong and I’m sure I don’t belong in a world that I never designed
So I’m buying a fur suit and a ladder and I’m certain for once and for all
I’m leaving behind this world’s weary grind and I’m hopping in over the wall
So the next time that you pay a visit to your relatives down in the zoo Look around carefully and you’ll probably see one or two of them looking at you
And you might even find that there’s two special monkeys and who knows it happen could be
That the one of them reading the Mirror is him and the one reading Penthouse is me
With Chas C. Ambler R.N.B. Pianoforte
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
BRAS ON 45
A song about a lady with bloomin’ great, huge, enormous, immense, colossal, massive breasts. For some reason or other, it’s quite popular in America, where the legendary Dr. Demento features it on his radio show. Here are the words of BOTH versions of “Bras on 45” This is as they appear on DEAD BADGER RECORDS – BOP 6T. There was a “DIRTY GERTIE VERSION” which was 7 minutes of disco filth on a 12” 45rpm single. On the B side was the 7” single version of “BRAS ON 45” subtitled the “FAMILY VERSION” which was exactly the same, but FADED 3 MINUTES EARLIER.
Writers… Biggun/ Dury/ Jankel/ Numan/ Tudorpole/ G.McPherson/ C.J.Foreman/ L.Simmons/ R.Wilson/ C. Wilson/ R. Wilson/ R. Taylor
(Dury is Ian Dury, Jankel is Chas Jankel, Numan is Gary Numan, Tudorpole is Edward Tudorpole of “Tenpole Tudor”, I think that McPherson & Foreman are members of “Madness” and I haven’t a clue who the Wilsons are, apart from the fact that they probably aren’t Beach Boys. R Taylor isn’t, as far as I know, the bloke out of “Queen”, and is another mystery to me.)
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty Five
Well I went out for a Boogie
A week ago last Tuesday
I was doing the Wigan Hustle and the Palais Glide
I met a girl in pink suspenders
And her buz-whams were stupendous
Like two bald-headed men sitting side by side
She wore a BRA SIZE 45 and she could jump and Jive
And when she stopped dancing, bits of her kept wobbling about
She said “You Drive Me Crazy
Burn Some Rubber On Me Baby”
She grabbed my little whistle and she began to shout
(Parody of “Hit me with your Rhythm stick”)
Hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit Me!
Je t’adore. Ich leibe dich. Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!
Hit me with your rhythm stick!
I’m six feet tall and five feet thick
Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty Five
I couldn’t do nothing but stand and stare
She gave me a hug like a grizzly bear
I couldn’t see much I thought I was dead
I had boobs upside my head
(Short quote from Ooops Upside My head)
Boobs upside my head
Boobs upside my head
(Parody of “Baggy Trousers” by Madness)
Oh what a front she had
Enough for me, my brother and dad
A chest of drawers no doubt
One with the top drawer half-pulled-out
Oh what a front she’d got
Believe me son she’d got the lot
Right before my eyes
And she was bra size forty five
Er…excuse me, what do I do now?
“Man be cool..gotta get down and have a rap.”
I beg yer pardon? I think I’ll do a talking bit instead!
She was the big economy size, her buz-whams were gigantic
Like two fat little boys wrestling under a blanket
The flickering strobes lit up the globes that thrust from her pullover
I think her name was June ‘cause she was Bustin’ Out All Over.
She said “Can You Feel The Force? D’y’wanna take One Step Beyond?”
I said “Goodness Gracious Great Balls of Fire, there’s a Whole Lot Of Shaking Going On!
She said “Knock On Wood, I’ll Blame It On The Boogie now what do you think about that?”
I said “Oooh heck! It Must Be Jelly ‘cause Jam Don’t Shake Like That”
Not so much of the Night Fever, more like a belt with a tyre lever
She was not at all pendulous, in fact she was tremendulous!
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
She wore a bra size forty five
And when they played “I Will Survive”
She went crackers, and her animal desires became much keener
She said “John I’m Only Dancing, but I’d rather be romancing”
She had me Inside Out And Upside Down in the back of my Cortina*
Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick
(Parody of “CARS” by Gary Numan)
And there in my car, the windows all steamed up
I thought I would drown, she let it all hang out in Bras
Size Forty Five
And there in my car, I thought “This Is It!”
An Instant Replay, My foot out the window in Bras
Size Forty Five
(Direct quote from “Swords Of A Thousand Men” by Tenpole Tudor)
Hoorah hoorah hoorah hey over the hills and now I’m on My way!
(I got out my tentpole and chewed ‘er)
Hoorah hoorah hoorah hey over the hills and now I’m on My way!
(Come on, let’s do the Bristol Stomp)
She wore a Bra Size Forty Five
I thought I never would revive
When I tackled that young lady with the bounciest of blouses
But she left me for a geezer
Who had much more chance to please ‘er
With his own Master Blaster and a pair of Baggy Trousers.
Oh what fun they had!
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
(NOTE! This is where the “FAMILY VERSION” fades out. Extended “DIRTY GERTIE VERSION” continues as follows:-)
And that’s why, And that’s why, And that’s why, and that’s why (“The Winker’s Song”)
I’m a Wanker, I’m a Wanker
And it does me good like it bloody well should
I’m a Wanker, I’m a Wanker
And I’m always pulling my pud
I’m a Wanker, I’m a Wanker
And it does me good like it bloody well should
I’m a Wanker, I’m a Wanker
And I’m always pulling my pud’
Thanks for the mammary, I think I’ve got it sussed
You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em both. I’m gonna go for bust.
Don’t they make a lovely pair? They look like a couple of Himalayas.
Double top, boogie on down, Bristol is my favourite town
Everybody understands, arthritis in both hands
She’s a disco bumper, she’s got a lumpy jumper
Cross your heart and hope to die, please don’t poke me in the eye
I know a girl from Potter’s Bar got eaten by her living bra
I said “Baby, oh baby. Surround me. Drown me.
Engulf me! Chew me up and spit me out.
Let me shipwreck against those white cliffs of Dover.
Get Back Leroy! Get Back Leroy! I wanna be Mr In-Between. Oooh wah! She was a Bra Size Forty Five. Have you ever seen anything like that? Come on let’s do The Bristol Stomp. Ooh! Hrbbbllerrllrl!
Y’know when you see things like that, you just wanna walk up to’em, and stick your head between ‘em and go hbrbrbrbbrbrlrlblblblb.
Whoo! Bra Size Forty Five! What a stupendous lady!
You don’t get many of those to the pound!
Oooh! Kick ‘em over your shoulders!
Double top, boogie on down, Bristol is my favourite town!
Great Balls Of Fire! There’s a Whole Lot Of Shaking Going On!
It Must Be Jelly ‘Cos Jam Don’t Shake Like That! Ooh!
Look! There’s a lady police officer! Can You Feel The Force? (Fade)
*note for American Biggun Fans. A Cortina was a particularly down-market large British car
Performed by Ivor Biggun and The D-Cups
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a vinyl Single (BOP 6 T)
THE WINKER’S ROCK ‘N’ ROLL (misprint)
An old favourite, organically grown (well… hand-raised) and digitally manipulated so at last you can hear the words (and now even read ’em – and weep).
When I was a kid in 1956
My big brother showed me some disgusting tricks
Sitting in the bathroom on my own
Wanking to the rhythm of me gramophone
And I was going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll
Well I tried to do the shimmy, I tried to do the twist
I tried to do the tango, I nearly broke me wrist
The women all point at me and scoff
Say “You won’t need me ’til your hand drops off”
And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll
Give me a ‘W’
Give me an ‘A’
Give me an ‘N’
Give me a ‘K’
Give me an ‘E’
Give me a ‘R’
Stick it all together and what’s that spell?
I’ve got Great Balls Of Fire
I’ve got blisters on me palms
I’ve got Willie And The Hand-Jive
And muscular arm
s The Teds call me “Wanker”
When I’m walking down the street
‘Cause I do the Jerky-Gurky
To the Boogie-Woogie beat
And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll
When Long Tall Sally met Johnny B. Goode
He didn’t do nothing but pull his pud’
Just the wrist and the fist and you can’t go wrong
Doing the Hand-Jive all night long
And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ vinyl Single
I LIFT UP MY FINGER (And Say Tweet-Tweet) Written by Leslie Sarony in the 1920’s, this little song is perfectly broadcastable and contains no blatant filth or cussing. Recorded mostly at Monterey Studios, London W7. Featuring electric guitar by the multi-talented Johnny G!
Some people make a fuss when a thing goes wrong
Some people swear and cuss, others sing a song
I don’t do either that’s all na-poo
When a thing goes wrong with me
This is what I do
I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
I don’t have to linger when I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
When the wife tells me where I ought to be
Do I sit there feeling glum?
No, I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
So if you’re in a train full of Manchester United supporters
And you’re the only one wearing a Queens Park Ranger’s scarf
Or if you’re trapped in the lavs by a fellow with nail varnish and eye-shadow
Don’t lose your cool, don’t be dismayed, just do what I do
I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
I don’t have to linger when I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
When a girl says “Dear, I’m lost around here”
Do I sit and suck my thumb
No, I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
Some people say tut-tut, others say dash-dash
Some call for beef or … others .. and mash
If in the hotel waiters are slow
Do I thunder what the? who the? why the? how the? no!
I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
I don’t have to linger when I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
When the cats at night are starting to fight
Do I sit there meek and mum?
No, I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
I don’t have to linger when I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
When the wife tells me where I ought to be
Do I sit there feeling glum?
No, I lift up my finger and I say tweet-tweet
hush-hush, now-now, come-come
Performed by Ivor Biggun & a vocal Quartet The Three Skins (one didn’t turn up)
Written by Leslie Sarony
Published by Francis Day & Hunter – EMI Music
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ Extended Play – (BOP 5)
SEND FOR DR. CLAP
A Sailor’s love song. Get a dose of this infectious number!!! When Ivor performs this song ‘live’ the audience often give him the clap that he so richly deserves. Recorded mostly at Spotted Dick Studios, Long Benton, Berks.
Well if you’ve got something wrong
With the end of your dong
And a pain in your old chap
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
If you’re feeling grotty
And your dongler’s spotty
That’s no great mishap
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
‘Cause he’s the man who will make you good as new
He’s the man who will cure you of your ills
He’s the man who will paint your privates blue
With his great big hypodermic and his great big pills
If you’ve got a throb in the end of your knob
And it dangles like a strap
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
And ladies too, he’ll see to you
He won’t make you blush
Come along and lie down on his couch
Point your path in his direction
And wait for his injection
You’ll only feel a little prick and you won’t say “Ouch!”
(And it’s on the National Health)
If you’ve got a failure in your g*nitalia
Don’t get in a flap
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
If you’ve got a pain or a varicose vein
Where it didn’t ought to be
Send for, send for, send for Clap M.D.
‘Cause he’s the man who will make you good as new
He’s the man who will cure you of your ills
He’s the man who will paint your privates blue
With his great big hypodermic and his great big pills
Well if you’ve got something wrong with the end of your dong
And a pain in your old chap
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
You’ve gotta…
Send for, send for, send for Dr. Clap
Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Penicillin Five
with Massive Howard Massey doing the hand claps
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ Extended Play – (BOP 5)
HIDE THE SAUSAGE (original version)
Recorded mostly at Monterey Studios W7 with Terrific Teddy MacDouall, guitar & Fanny Boovines on backing vocals. Based on an old traditional Rotherham whippet neutering song called “I’ve Got A Hot Dog If You’ve Got The Bun”. Biggun is accompanied by an upright organ and expertly handled maraccas.
Well there’s a brand new dance
Everybody’s trying to do
It’s better than the pogo
The shimmy or the boogaloo
You can do it by yourself
But it’s much more fun with two
So come on everybody
Let’s go nuts and screw
And this is just what you do
You’ve got to…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight
Well a little chippolata
That points down to your toes
Is as good as a big Frankfurter
That reaches up to your nose
Well if it’s a Wiener Schnitzel (Mein Gott)
Or a hot dog stuffed in a bun
Or a big black pudding
Come and do it everyone
You can join in the fun
When you…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight
It’s a dance you can do on the sofa
It’s a dance you can do in the park
You can even do it in Piccadilly Circus
If you’re quick and you do it when it’s dark
You can do it backwards, frontwards and sideways
Provided that you’re over sixteen (Oh no you don’t!)
You can even do it standing up, I’ve seen it in a magazine
But you’ve got to be keen
When you…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dad
s The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight
Well there’s a brand new dance
Everybody’s trying to do
It’s better than the pogo
The shimmy or the boogaloo
You can do it by yourself if you’re a wanker
But it’s much more fun with two
So come on everybody
Let’s go nuts and screw
And this is just what you do
You’ve got to…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage
Let’s all spear the bearded clam
C’mon let’s all sink the …. dagger
Ooh it’s wonderful to hide the sausage
C’mon everybody it’s time to hide the sausage
Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Fifty Flicks
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ Extended Play – (BOP 5)
Skip to content
