Who likes going on journey's?
Queuing with luggage on gurney's.
Getting the squirts,
And how that hurts,
And needing some legal attorneys.
A holiday's bound for disaster,
Just ask a weather forecaster.
The airports will strike,
The prices will hike,
And the bed's will be cold alabaster.
And once there the going got worse.
As you cried out loud with a curse.
The hotel's double booked,
The holiday's fooked,
And the taxi back home is a hearse.
Back in Blighty you got to your house.
Hopefully still with your spouse.
But you turned the key,
And what did you see,
It's turned into a squalid crackhouse.
The beds were all soaked in urine,
It smelt of rotting brachyuran.
The pillows were rank,
The mattresses stank,
And the sheets looked like shrouds of Turin.
The living room had a health warning,
The carpet was fully in mourning.
A corpse in the corner,
Like little Jack Horner,
And cockroaches already swarming.
In the garden a vast abyss,
One that Nietzsche could hardly miss.
He looked down that pit,
Seeking out his remit,
And said it was taking the piss.
So never again will you travel,
When your toilets been filled with gravel.
Your oven's been sold,
The fridge full of mould,
Causing your life to unravel.
[brachyuran - crabs (there ain't that many words rhyme with urine y'know!)]
Queuing with luggage on gurney's.
Getting the squirts,
And how that hurts,
And needing some legal attorneys.
A holiday's bound for disaster,
Just ask a weather forecaster.
The airports will strike,
The prices will hike,
And the bed's will be cold alabaster.
And once there the going got worse.
As you cried out loud with a curse.
The hotel's double booked,
The holiday's fooked,
And the taxi back home is a hearse.
Back in Blighty you got to your house.
Hopefully still with your spouse.
But you turned the key,
And what did you see,
It's turned into a squalid crackhouse.
The beds were all soaked in urine,
It smelt of rotting brachyuran.
The pillows were rank,
The mattresses stank,
And the sheets looked like shrouds of Turin.
The living room had a health warning,
The carpet was fully in mourning.
A corpse in the corner,
Like little Jack Horner,
And cockroaches already swarming.
In the garden a vast abyss,
One that Nietzsche could hardly miss.
He looked down that pit,
Seeking out his remit,
And said it was taking the piss.
So never again will you travel,
When your toilets been filled with gravel.
Your oven's been sold,
The fridge full of mould,
Causing your life to unravel.
[brachyuran - crabs (there ain't that many words rhyme with urine y'know!)]
