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McTavish worked the factory a common workin' lad |
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Not much to look forward to 'cept drink and being bad |
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He'd show up at the bar and spend his money on the booze |
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Spend the night complaining, to the barman he'd be rude |
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He'd brag loudly at the bar 'bout the time he'd got the crabs |
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Or the strike down at the docks when he beat up all the scabs |
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The barman said yo laddie you keep the language clean |
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He smiled and said pissh off and threw up in the soup tureen |
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What's the matter it's dear olde Glasgee's goin' round and round |
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Saturday night, Sunday morning |
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The King O Glasgee Town |
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One day in the Queen came 'to town, he went to the parade |
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Shtill pisht from the night before he spied her motorcade |
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As her car went past he made a gesture very divide |
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He lifted his kilt and showed his ass as dirty as the Clyde |
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He staggered home that night |
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His kilt was dripping piss |
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He stopped te boch on a minister's frock |
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And he raised his drunken fist |
