There’s a spider in my cuckoo clock
No wonder it keeps going wrong’
There’s cobwebs round each moving part
So it’s knackered the cuckoo’s song.
I put the kettle on at ten
and then it cuckoos eight,
I’ve missed ‘The Archers’ twice this week
Coz’ that bloody cuckoo’s late.
I stagger out of bed
when the sun begins to shine.
The cuckoo says it’s eight o’clock
but I know damn well it’s nine.
I unfastened the back once
then peered in quite meekly,
tried a swipe at the spider
with ‘The Woman’s Weekly’.
Sunday p.m., last part of the serial
(the vicars mixed up in some scandal).
Put the radio on; I’ve missed it – oh no,
the cuckoo’s now stuck on it’s handle.
I’ve dusted the clock and vac’d in the back
and some of the time it goes fine.
But I can’t trust the cuckoo – he’ll have to be shot.
I JUST WANT THE RIGHT BLOODY TIME!