I walked to the shops in my long cromby coat.
With my scalf tied up tight, but not so I'd choke.
As cool as an ice cube, and as clean as a flute.
With a firm lit ciggerette, for me to toot.
My luck has been down, so what can I lose?
I sing songs in my head, but it is not the blues.
Then within an inch where I walked, from the heavens above.
White shit hit the ground, from a sparrow or dove.
For a 1.00 I thought I should try my hand. With a instant scratchcard with a prize maybe grand.
It was not to be and I did understand.
For the bird shit on the cromby, it did not land.