Wetherspoons
A dreary hole, there is no doubt, For those who have no taste It tempts a crusty codger out His drab attire replaced By gaudy shirt and slobbering leer He huddles by the bar And downs the cut price scotch and beer Admiring from afar The moustached slapper found within He'll ply with cheap tequila And dish out awful chat up lines And dream that he could feel her Up beneath the table When the dirty tart gets plastered So if you find yourself within Go flee my dear –it's not a sin To want to leave this filthy bin Before the guy with sickly grin And Stella dripping from his chin Who buys you lots of gut rot gin And wants to get his todger in Has took you home, his thoughts of sin So lock the door, don't let him in The dirty cheapskate bastard
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