In the park he pisses on the daisies.
On the bus he sh**s himself.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
His grey trench coat is full of fleas.
His name is Chutney.
He's the real McCoy.
He's not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He's bared from the Wetherspoons chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he'll be back again.
He can smoke a hundred Woodbines
Or Capstan Full Strength a day.
He can drink a gallon of meths
And still stand up in a fight.
His name is Chutney.
He's the real McCoy.
He's not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He's bared from the Wetherspoon's chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he'll be back again.
He busks with a one-string mandolin
He found in a skip.
He goes down the Sally Army
For a cup of tea and some jip.
His name is Chutney.
He's the real McCoy.
He's not a crusty
Whispering for spare change.
He's bared from the Wetherspoon's chain.
Along with the Irish.
But he'll be back again.