| My brother is a brat, a wank stain in a hat
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| My sister is a strumpet in a nun
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| And Dad is on the Hock, naked on the dock
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| Who says making money isn’t fun?
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| The Beckmanns could be normal if the city wasn’t mad
|
| But who could stop the rot when it began?
|
| Now Father is a fat lady in a hat
|
| And Mother is a gentleman
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| My cousin, he’s a singer, popular with fleas
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| My uncle’s been in prison for a year
|
| And I’ve got the disease, my brother likes to tease
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| Of walking off with stuff that isn’t there
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| The Beckmanns could be normal if the city wasn’t mad
|
| But who could stop the rot when it began?
|
| Now Father is a fat lady in a hat
|
| And Mother is a gentleman
|
| The lightbulb starts to swing when the neighbours stagger in
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| And they begin to bugger and to fist
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| Father plays the sousaphone and everybody groans
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| It soon has Mother drinking like a fish
|
| The Beckmanns could be normal if the city wasn’t mad
|
| But who could stop the rot when it began?
|
| Now Father is a fat lady in a hat
|
| And Mother is a gentleman
|
| The mongrel’s got the runs, up there on the sun
|
| Which probably explains why it is brown
|
| And Father is a fat lady in a hat
|
| And Mother is a gentleman
|
| Nobody’s impressed when the actors get undressed
|
| We simply cannot understand the fuss
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| Cos everything they do is made of sand and glue
|
| They’re parrots doing parodies of us
|
| The Beckmanns could be normal if the city wasn’t mad
|
| But who could stop the rot when it began?
|
| Father is a fat wank stain in a hat
|
| And Mother is from Amsterdam
|
| Mother’s swigging schnapps and Father’s playing craps
|
| With the creep we call the Fisher King
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| And Jesus is at large, standing on a barge
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| Heading up to Hamburg for the spring
|
| The Beckmanns could be normal if the city wasn’t mad
|
| But who can stop the rot when it’s begun
|
| Father is a fat bugger in a hat
|
| And Mother is a gentleman |