Alone and pointless by her mouldering self,
she stares at the tin of sardines on the shelf
By a parafin lamp in a dingy brown room,
Gran sits and broods in the thickening gloom
It's a gloom that congeals it's so greasy and thick,
You could cut into strips and roast on a stick
And hand round to friends, but there's nobody there,
just Gran, on her own, in a miserable chair
So don't point it at me, point it at Gran
She needs it more than I do, and more than Princes Anne
When Princess Anne's 82 and living in a room room flat in Hackney,
maybe she could do with a bit as well
Don't point it me, don't point at it yourself
Just point it at Gran and the sardines on the shelf
Don't point it at me, I've had more than enough
Just point it at Gran, she could do with plenty of stuff
Don't point it at me, point it Gran
Well, it could be a firehose, or it could be a flan
Now, some people are happy and some people are bored,
and some people are left and completely ignored
So why should your life end on a dismal note?