I bought my heart at Harrods,
It never worked for me,
So I took it to the garage
As the dentist wasn’t free.
The mechanic he was manic
And a bit inclined to panic,
And he cried, ‘What kind of piffle
Are you peddling, matey, if all
You can bring me is this skiffle
When I wanted rock and roll?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ I answered,
‘It’s this dratted goldfish bowl.
It attacks me with a lancet
When I’m eating Irish stew,
And devours my every waking thought
And all the others too,
And if you let yourself be caught
The same will come to you.’
At this the mad mechanic fled
With shrieks into his garden shed
And wrapped his arms about his head
And never moved again.
And when I saw the coast was clear
I soaked myself in ginger beer
Which promptly made me disappear
(I hardly need explain).
By now my heart was right as rain,
So that was effort down the drain;
If only I could say the same
About my poor misguided brain.
I bought my brain at Budgen’s,
It never worked for me.
I’d tell you all the story,
But it gets a little gory,
What with all the bombs and bludgeons,
So I think I’ll let it be.