Rest in Fucking Peace

I know a chap called Gordon, the master of the quiz

We’ve all got special subjects, and swearing’s fucking his

Even between syllables he just can’t seem to cope

So it’s super-fucking-sonic, and micro-bastard-scope

He said when he got married, and I swear that this is true

“I for fucking sake all others, and Yes I bastard do”

The priest said “Now hold on there, please keep your language clean!”

“Just get a twatting move on, or we’ll miss the three fifteen

He’s tried to get on millionaires, and he wouldn’t need a cough

If he didn’t like the question he’d ell Tarrant to fuck off

He’d soon be in the money, on that you can depend

He’d ask the bastard audience and phone a fucking friend

He’s partial to casinos, he likes to play roulette

And he’s often down at Bonaparte’s to place a fucking bet

I just can’t understand it, it doesn’t make much sense

To lose a bastard wallet full and come home with eight pence

He’s not keen on immigration and that’s a fucking fact

Old Gordon doesn’t mince words; he’s never one for tact

He’d take all asylum seekers and have the bastards shot

Or take them to the tunnel and drown the fucking lot

His quizzes are the best around; his windows are okay

But if you’re easily offended stay out of Gordon’s way

It’s said he’s had a gravestone made for when he is deceased

It simply says Here’s Waddy, and Rest in Fucking Peace

                  Pc03