Gran — текст песни (Hitchcock Robyn)

Alone and pointless by her mouldering self,
she stares at the tin of sardines on the shelf.
By a parafin 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 Princes Anne.
When Princess Anne`s 82 and living in a room room flat in Hackney,
maybe she could do ... with a bit as well.
Don`t point it me, don`t point at it 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 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?