In your bacchanalian revelry,
you looked at me and saw three,
and it was hard to see what value your opinions had,
what value at all for they were no good to me,
and when you shouted at me through your open window,
where you were sat upon your sofa swearing at the TV,
and oh, how could you possibly see,
with your fifty cans of beer,
and your mountains of food on the table, and your gluttony,
and, when I looked at you,
I was glad I could only see one of you,
as I passed your house,
you the sofa pundit of the century, who I regularly see,
who I regularly see as I walk down the street,
for you are sat in your living room,
with enough food for a king,
as you sit there shouting out mostly abuse,
and shouting out words,
words that make no sense in your bacchanalian revelry,
but it does bring a smile to me.
