[Intro] (Right, listen up you mugs) Great Western Railway wanted a hundred and eighty quid for a return. A hundred and eighty quid! I'm not made of money, and I ain't made of sense either. So I took matters, and my own meat, into my own hands. (Boing, boing) Let's have it! [Verse 1] I was sat in sunny Bodmin with a pint of flat cider, Staring at the rail fares, eyes growing ever wider. Need to get to Portsmouth for a stag do on the lash, But I'm living on the dole and I am completely out of cash. So I popped to the Poundland for a helium party tank, Walked past the pasty shop, walked past the local bank. Dropped my tracky bottoms in the privacy of my shed, Attached the plastic nozzle to the helmet of my head. Wrapped it tight in gaffer tape to seal the precious gas, Opened up the valve and let the elements bypass. The skin began to stretch, a proper terrifying sight, A translucent fleshy space hopper reflecting the sunlight. [Pre-Chorus] The structural integrity was absolutely mental, It sounded like a kettle and it wasn't incidental. I straddled my own bell-end, gave a little test bounce, Defying bloody gravity with every single ounce! (He's off his tits!) [Chorus] Bouncing on a cheesy flesh balloon across the southwest coast! A helium-filled prepuce is the transport I love most! Boing, boing, boing, down the A Thirty Eight, Riding on my own anatomy, I'm gonna be there late. It's a polyrhythmic journey on a swollen wrinkled sack, If it bursts somewhere near Plymouth, there is no turning back! (No turning back, mate!) [Verse 2] I vaulted over Exeter, a glorious descent, The friction on the tarmac meant the smell was quite pungent. A seventy-mile-an-hour wind whistling round my sack, Dodging bloody tractors with a mighty heart attack. An old dear in a Volvo nearly crashed into a ditch, When she saw a flying willy bouncing past at perfect pitch. The math-folk polyrhythms of the slapping on the road, A five-eight time signature as my undercarriage flowed. I'm chafing in the doldrums, the skin is getting thin, But I'm saving eighty bob so it's a monumental win. [Pre-Chorus] The aerodynamics of a stretched-out foreskin dome, Far superior to any crappy train I've taken home. I'm skipping over Dorset with a squeaky little squeal, This aerodynamic bell-end is a brilliant bloody deal! (Watch out for the seagulls!) [Chorus] Bouncing on a cheesy flesh balloon across the southwest coast! A helium-filled prepuce is the transport I love most! Boing, boing, boing, down the A Thirty Eight, Riding on my own anatomy, I'm gonna be there late. It's a polyrhythmic journey on a swollen wrinkled sack, If it bursts somewhere near Plymouth, there is no turning back! [Bridge] Approaching Hampshire borders, but the tension is immense. The pressure in the vessel is defying common sense. I spot the Spinnaker Tower, I am closing on the prize, But a flock of angry pigeons take me by a foul surprise! A beak to the balloon! A catastrophic tearing sound! I'm plummeting to earth, I'm gonna smash into the ground! The helium releases with a high-pitched frantic fart, A tragic end to what was frankly a majestic work of art. [Guitar Solo] (Frantic, aggressive fingerpicking with slapping cajon polyrhythms simulating a high-speed deflation spiral) [Extended Chorus] I was bouncing on a cheesy flesh balloon across the southwest coast! A helium-filled prepuce was the transport I loved most! Boing, boing, splat, right on the M Twenty Seven, My deflated pride and joy is crying out to heaven. It's a polyrhythmic journey on a swollen wrinkled sack, Now I'm sitting in the A and E with an ice pack on my mac! (He needs a skin graft!) [Outro] So if you need to travel from the Cornish countryside, Don't use your own appendage for a horrifying ride. Just pay the bloody train fare, take it from a shattered bloke. My foreskin looks a lettuce that's been in a nasty fire. (Absolute muppet) Fade it out, lads. I need some Sudocrem. [Fade Out]
