Bojo

You want your cake and eat it
But not your just desserts
Every egg is in the basket
And you’ve counted them all
The milk’s been spilt and you’re crying on the inside
More than prepared to let sleeping dogs lie
Your pants are on fire but you haven’t pulled your hair out yet
Humour dry but behind your ears wet
We all expect you’re a fake snake waiting in the grass
A crack pot mess calling all kettles black
Needle in a haystack tracking your new obsession
Count your stars
Count your blessings
Until you’ve run out of all fingers and toes
To spite your face you cut off your nose
How many more backs are waiting for a knife?
When left to your devices we all think twice
No tears for a clown
No peace for the wicked
Oh no Bojo holds a golden ticketTotally Thames festival


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