Well, I wake up in the morning at 11:47
And I can't believe I have to face the horror of another fucking day
And the magnificent magnitude of my morning erection
Merely mocks me like the sun in its optimistic greeting of the day
Managing to manifest a modicum of motivation
I meander to the kitchen make a mission out of mixing Nescafe
But the milk is going off and coffee by itself is bitter
And there's ants all through the sugar and the supermarket's miles a-fuckin'-way
My life is pretty sad
But I know that I should be glad
I could be a starving Ethiope
Or a policeman in Baghdad, policeman in Baghdad
At 11:53, I instigate the day's ablutions in the hope
My constitution can be altered by some action on the bowl
But the total non-existence of colonic animation
Seems to me the perfect metaphor for the utter constipation of my soul
By 11:59, I have decided that my life would be immediately improved
By a carefully written list of short-term goals
But by 12.05, my list consists of 1-dot put some pants on
2-dot go to the shop, buy some prunes and Panadol
My life is pretty shit
But I know I shouldn't whinge about it
I could be a Palestinian
Driving buses on the Gaza strip
Yeah, how bad can it be?
Some people have it worse than me
I could be a child prostitute
Or Gary Glitter's family
I have no right to cry
Some people have it worse than I
I could be a thalidomide kid
With something in my eye, something in my eye
My eye
At 12:30, I realise I'm feeling so dejected that
I've totally neglected the beginning of the Jerry Springer show
So I settle on the sofa try to focus an iota of my motor-neurones
On the brilliant insights for which Jerry is known
And although on any other day a show entitled "Midgets Midget Midgets"
Would excite me like a virgin at her year eleven ball
Today those little jelly-wresting fellas fail to free me of my misery
Instead they simply serve to make me feel three foot tall
But, how bad can it be?
Some people have it worse than me
I could be a junior lifesaver in Banda Aceh Beach
Or a woman in the Taliban
Or a Jew in the Ku Klux Klan
Or the architect of the World Trade Centre
Or a mortician in Pyongyang
I could have my identity mistaken
As a bomber in an underground station
Or I could be a peace-loving speech-writer
In George W's administration
Yeah, I know that I don't have the right
To be unhappy with my life
I could be Hitler's mother
Or Shane Warne's wife
And I know that I shouldn't be bitchin'
I could be in a worse position
I could be a 3-nippled naturopath
In the days of the Spanish, Spanish inquisition
I know I have no right to cry
Some people have it much much worse than I
I could have a serious nut allergy
And be shipwrecked on an island with a crate of Snickers bars
A jar of Nutella and a fresh baked pecan pie
Some people have it worse than I