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I’m bored and I’m not going boating today
Your flimsy flotilla is floating away.
Down the stream, where the turds float
And your dream, is a lost hope.
You sail down the sewer
Your fears they are fewer
You hammered all those holes in the hull.
Tending your tiller
Say the stools they are stiller
But the mire looks so murky and dull.
Are you the boater on the river
Or the floater on the sewer?
Am I sinker or swimmer?
My chances are slimmer
If I open my mouth to protest.
Those that won’t listen
Are busily pissin’ in
A place upstream
coz they think they know best.
Come piddle, piddle in your river
Then come drink, drink from your river
Now you seem so keen
You struggle upstream
To the source troubles and woes.
You float down said stream
Say your life’s but a dream.
How fictitious is your rectum that rows?
Come row, row the rectum
Row, row the rectum
I’m bored and I’m not going boating today,
Your flimsy flotilla is floating away,
Down the stream, where the turds float.
© MOTH 1991
The voting regatta has become a regular event
Boater = Floater = Voter