Babs’ Bap Van Boogie
One, two, three, four! (hey!) (ho!)
Old Emsbury and Condiment went marching through the mud
Two festival commandos with some cider in their blood No matter what
the band was playing right before our eyes They’d only yarn of
Babs’s van and all her greasy pies!
Oh, Babs and her bap van,
serving up the flop!
A puddle full of squelchy wets,
a dollop of the slop!
A greasy bit of wet fish and crispy salty chips,
While Nan is on the caravan roof,
howling off her tits! (slainte!)
The main stage had a headliner,
the laser beams were bright
Condiment was squinting, shouting through the blinding light: "Forget the bloody synth
solo, get in the queue for grease!
That bap has got enough wet slop to keep the peace!" (hahaha)
Oh, Babs and her bap van,
serving up the flop!
A puddle full of squelchy wets,
a dollop of the slop!
A greasy bit of wet fish and crispy salty chips,
While Nan is on the caravan roof,
howling off her tits! (hey!) (ho!) (yee-ha!)
We looked across the campsite lawn And through the morning fog...
Old Nan was doing handstands On a plastic porta-bog!
Oh, Babs and her bap van,
serving up the flop!
A puddle full of squelchy wets,
a dollop of the slop!
A greasy bit of wet fish and crispy salty chips,
While Nan is on the caravan roof,
howling off her tits!
Get those crispy chips in ya!