Words by Roger McGough - Music by Mike McGear and Paul McCartney
YOU'RE AS BORED AS BUTTERSCOTCH, IT OBVIOUS WE'RE THROUGH
SILK STOCKING LYING ON THE CHAIR, SUNSHINE STICKS LIKE GLUE
KIDS ARE PLAYING WARRIORS IN THE BLANCOED YARD OUTSIDE,
I TRIED TO THINK OF SOMETHING I TRIED, I TRIED, I TRIED.
THE CAT SLEEPS ON THE LINO DREAMING OF FROZEN MICE
YOU STROKE YOUR THIGH WITH A HAIRBRUSH BACK PRETENDING THAT IT'S ICE.
THE WARRIOR TRIUMPHANT TAKES A DUSTBIN FOR A RIDE
CRYING FEAR NO MORE, THE TYRANT HE DIED, HE DIED, HE DIED.
THE CLOCK COMPLAINS OF SUNSTROKE AND THEN IS HEARD NO MORE
A SICK VIOLIN IS PUT TO BED BY THE CORPORAL NEXT DOOR.
THE LID SLIPS OFF THE DUSTBIN, THE WARRIOR FALLS INSIDE
SPREADEAGLED HURT HIS BOTTOM AND HIS PRIDE, HIS PRIDE, HIS PRIDE.
WOULD YOU GIVE IN, WHO CAN SAY?
YOU THROW AWAY THE HAIRBRUSH AT THE CAT AND WALK TOWARDS THE DOOR,
TRACE A FINAL FAREWELL IN FOOT PRINTS ON THE FLOOR.
I THOUGH ABOUT THE VIOLIN AND THE CLOCK THAT DIED,
AND LIKE THE WOUNDED WARRIOR I CRIED, I CRIED, I CRIED