It's getting late, back from a hot curry
In the company of Fat Roland's mates
It was a lamb and garlic, they asked me
How hot, so I replied maximum heat
The waiter was funny, they're often sweet
These fools that ask for a hot one, but then
They can't take it, but my mouth won't be beat
It took me a while, and I was gaspin'
A bit, swigged beer, but that wasn't helpin'
It was Fat Roland's 41st, memory
Awoken on the walk to Rusholme, eighties
Hangouts aplenty, many of them gone
The Clarence is now the Phoenix, he he
It rose from the Irish ashes - that's fate
No comments:
Post a Comment