[Intro] [Acoustic guitar starts with a messy, rhythmic strum] [Sound of a car engine coughing and dying] (You what? He is stuck where?) Right, listen up you lot. This is the end of the road. Literally. [Verse 1] I woke up Tuesday morning to a frantic bloody call From a Cornish lad named Jago who is three feet fucking tall He is wedged inside the exhaust of a Mark Two Vauxhall Corsa Looking like a chrome-plated, soot-covered iron horse-a He said "Help me out me beauty, I was looking for me cat" Now his ears are full of carbon and his head is squashed and flat I am standing in the driveway with a bottle of Fairy Liquid Trying to lube a Cornishman while feeling bloody wicked (He is stuck fast!) (Like a pasty in a drainpipe!) [Chorus] So tell the Proctology Committee they can shove it up their own I am done with looking at the place where the sun has never shone I have got a man in a muffler and a dream of being free So take your rubber gloves and sod off, honestly One Hundred Percent done with the sphincters and the piles I am heading for the coast and I am covering the miles [Verse 2] I spent Five Years sitting on the Professional Standards Board Analyzing rectums while the Chairman bloody snored Looking at the polyps of a Duke from Milton Keynes While Jago’s in a tailpipe wearing spray-on denim jeans He is shouting "Oll korrect" but his voice is muffled deep While I’m dreaming of the salaries the private doctors reap I told the Chief Consultant he’s a massive gaping hole Then I poured a tin of petrol on my medical career scroll (Burn it down!) (Smells like burning rubber and regret!) [Bridge] [Beat drops out, just raw guitar tapping] [Fast Rap] Seventy Nine bums on a Monday morning queue Sixty Two hemorrhoids and a bit of vindaloo I am quitting, I am sprinting, I am never coming back I would rather pull a Cornishman out of a Corsa’s crack Than spend another second in a sterile white room Listening to a proctologist discuss a patient's doom! [Verse 3] I finally got him loose with a winch and some WD-Forty He popped out like a cork, looking greasy, grim and naughty He said "Thanks for that me lover, do you want to go for tea?" I said "Jago, mate, I’m unemployed, the world belongs to me!" I sent a final email to the committee inner circle With a high-res photo of a goat named Steve and Urkel Attached a resignation that was written in my bile And walked out of the clinic with a massive, toothy smile [Chorus] So tell the Proctology Committee they can shove it up their own I am done with looking at the place where the sun has never shone I have got a man in a muffler and a dream of being free So take your rubber gloves and sod off, honestly One Hundred Percent done with the sphincters and the piles I am heading for the coast and I am covering the miles [Outro] [Acoustic guitar fades out with a final, discordant chord] [Sound of a car speeding away] Keep your fingers to yourselves, lads. I am going to Cornwall. (He is still covered in soot!) (Absolute bellend.) [End]
