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A folk singer of ethnic origin leaned upon the bar
He'd tried to roll himself a fag but he'd had no luck so far
He had with him a Lurcher, a ragged animal called Shep
Who didn't like the place and did a whoopsie on the step

Jed Burrows was his name my friends, he was a local bloke
Or so he said, but we all knew he'd caught the bus from Stoke
He placed upon a vacant chair a leather booted foot
His elbow to his knee and hand to his right ear he put

He sang in clear and ringing tones though nasal I suppose
Due to the fact that he had got his thumb stuck up his nose
His accent sounded like a Geordie Cornishman from Brum

And he sang so flat his Lurcher jumped right up and bit his bum

The evening dragged a little as we all got slowly drunk
Including Jed's old Lurcher who smelt like a rotten skunk
Jed never fed him so he poked in dustbins quite a lot
And he'd come across the meadow where he'd rolled in god know what

The singing it got worse and worse, the pub ran out of beer
But still Jed battled bravely on, his hand clamped to his ear
You'll never see a bloke drink more wherever you may roam
He closed his eyes
Fell off his chair
And then we all went home

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