The vendor’s getting on, the house is tired,
She thinks things are alright,
Because she had the place rewired,
Thirty years ago, you can tell she’s tight.
The house is sound, structurally maintained,
But nobody seems to have explained,
You need a bathroom for every bedroom,
To bring things up to the modern age,
A bog of one’s own is all the rage,
A big fat Yorkshire businessman,
Can’t be expected to rise in the gloom,
And walk down a corridor to move his bowels.
If it wasn’t for his wife, he’d use a bed pan,
Can’t really be arsed to go to the bog at all,
Let alone go wandering down the hall.
His wife loves an ensuite, with fluffy white towels,
In piles,
And she says she doesn’t mind hearing him straining,
Giving himself piles, as long as she’s certain
The toilet’s draining,
And the shower has a modern glass door,
And no curtain,
And a wet room floor.
So, the ornamental plasterwork, newly restored
Is going to have to go,
People are bored,
With that kind of look,
Out of a history book.
The conservation people won’t mind,
I’ll make sure of that, it’s who you know,
Been in the business 40 years or so.
