Surging Out Of Convalescence

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Darts in soap operas, oh so wrong, oh so wrong
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No one's scoring and there's too much chat between easch throw
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Worse than this though is when cheers are raised for the bull
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Granted, bull's a double and an out but I know that they don't
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Know their boards; I propose no soap darts.
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Is your child hyperactive or is he perhaps a twat?
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Sometimes I like to watch wave rage down on Fistral Beach
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Last Ash Wednesday I had tantric sex and it was shit
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Next Ash Wednesday I might strive to lick my elbow;
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Strive in vain, for they say few succeed.
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I wrote to the Horse and Hounds to gloat over whay I'd done
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I stored their magazine in a data retrieval system
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Well let's face it what're they going to do?
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It's not as if they know where I live
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And anyway I cut the caper back in 1984
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Heartbroken Matrons on joyless beds
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For those whose souls the iron has entered
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And if I get to Heaven's gate I'll doubtless have to wait
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While St. Peter investigates the inevitable asterisk
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The inside of a Halex Three Star table-tennis ball
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Smells much like you'd expect it to.