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?
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