Robyn Hitch***** - Point It At Gran Lyrics
Alone and pointless by her mouldering selfShe stares at the tin of sardines on the shelfBy a paraffin lamp in a dingy brown roomGran sits and broods in the thickening gloomIt's a gloom that congeals; it's so greasy and thickYou could cut into strips and roast on a stickAnd hand round to friends but there's nobody thereJust Gran, on her own, in a miserable chairSo don't point it at mePoint it at GranShe needs it more than I doAnd more than Princess AnneWhen Princess Anne's eighty-twoAnd living in a one room flat in HackneyMaybe she could do with a bit as wellDon't point it at meDon't point it at yourselfJust point it at GranAnd the sardines on the shelfDon't point it at meI've had more than enoughJust point it at GranShe could do with plenty of stuffDon't point it at mePoint it at GranWell, it could be a firehoseOr it could be a flanNow some people are happyAnd some people are boredAnd some people are leftAnd completely ignoredSo why should your life end on a dismal note?
