Robyn Hitchcock - Point It at Gran lyrics

Alone and pointless by her mouldering self She stares at the tin of sardines on the shelf By a paraffin lamp in a dingy brown room Gran sits and broods in the thickening gloom It's a gloom that congeals; it's so greasy and thick You could cut into strips and roast on a stick And hand round to friends but there's nobody there Just Gran, on her own, in a miserable chair So don't point it at me Point it at Gran She needs it more than I do And more than Princess Anne When Princess Anne's eighty-two And living in a one room flat in Hackney Maybe she could do with a bit as well Don't point it at me Don't point it at yourself Just point it at Gran And the sardines on the shelf Don't point it at me I've had more than enough Just point it at Gran She could do with plenty of stuff Don't point it at me Point it at Gran Well, it could be a firehose Or it could be a flan Now some people are happy And some people are bored And some people are left And completely ignored So why should your life end on a dismal note?