Swingal McFingal is out on the lash

Swingal McFingal will make the night last

Carousing to coppers and slinking about

Swingal McFingal is rarely a snout....

His mind is a-flame at the end of the day,

Kinky white rabbits are having their say,.

A mescaline mixture is a-flooding his brain

So he aint really sure if ol’Swingal is sane.

He’s taken to Cockney cryptography again

To escape from the custard & jelly & dustbin lid.

He brylcreemed his barnet under the winder

Checked out his boat race, collar and Tinder.

Set out in his jam-jar, off to hav a giraffe - 

an ample epitaph - 

On his meandering way to be Brahms and Liszt, Vera Lynn is once again pissed.

He felt he was lost in a two and eight, after nine or ten others, of late

Exploding a  full on raspberry tart, he  felt a touch less, Pat and Mick.

But in the morning, O! in the mourning,  sitting on the Khyber pass,

Gripping his loaf of bread.....

He knows that he is dead.