Point It At Gran

Alone and pointless by her mouldering self

She stares at the tin of sardines on the shelf

By a paraffin lamp in a dingy brown room

Gran sits and broods in the thickening gloom

It's a gloom that congeals; it's so greasy and thick

You could cut into strips and roast on a stick

And hand round to friends but there's nobody there

Just Gran, on her own, in a miserable chair

So don't point it at me

Point it at Gran

She needs it more than I do

And more than Princess Anne

When Princess Anne's eighty-two

And living in a one room flat in Hackney

Maybe she could do with a bit as well

Don't point it at me

Don't point it at yourself

Just point it at Gran

And the sardines on the shelf

Don't point it at me

I've had more than enough

Just point it at Gran

She could do with plenty of stuff

Don't point it at me

Point it at Gran

Well, it could be a firehose

Or it could be a flan

Now some people are happy

And some people are bored

And some people are left

And completely ignored

So why should your life end on a dismal note?