Oh Jesus Christ I'm nearly forty
My pubic hair is going grey
I can't cut the mustard like I used to
I think it's downhill all the way
Oh please don't dump me by the seaside
Don't shout as if my ears don't work
Never let me pee my trousers
Don't let me dribble down my shirt
The hair that once flowed round my shoulders
Is drifting off just like the tide
That thing that was my little parting
Is now about four inches wide
And when you see me on the buses
Oh please don't offer me your seat
Or when you're crunching on those apples
I'll be sucking boiled sweets
I can't play squash or go out jogging
For fear my heart is going to burst
I think that beds were made for sleeping
And that's a whole lot bloody worse
I think I'll stay at home this evening
And watch whatever's on the box
I must buy some thermal knickers
A night cap and some woolly socks
Oh Jesus Christ I'm nearly forty
My pubic hair is going grey