Dressed in my teenold brown sweaty I easily micked with crown at Neville Club a seemy hole. Soon all but soon people accoustic me saying such thing as 'Where the charge man?' All of a southern I notice boils and girks sitting in hubbered lumps smoking Hernia taking Odeon and going very high. Somewhere 4ft high but he had Indian Hump which he grew in his sleep. Puffing and globbering they drugged theyselves rampling or dancing with wild abdomen, stubbing in wild postumes amongst themselves.
They seemed olivier to thе world about them. One girk was revеaling them all over the place to rounds of bread and
applause. Shocked and mazed I pulled on my rubber stamp heady for the door.
'Do you kindly mind stop shoveing,' a brough voice said.
'Who think you are?' I retired smiling wanly.
'I'm in charge,' said the brough but heavy voice.
'How high the moon?' cried another, and the band began to play.
A coloured man danced by eating a banana, or somebody.
I drudged over hopping to be noticed. He iced me warily saying 'French or Foe'.
'Foe' I cried taking him into jeapardy.
Lyrics provided by LRCLIB
