There’s a Triffid in our garden,
and I don’t know what to do.
I asked it’s leave, ‘Beg pardon!’
but it refuses to let me through.
It ‘clacks’ all day,
and through the night,
and it’s a great big ugly brute,
I don’t know what it’s up to,
and it seems to bear no fruit.
His mate came round this morning,
they ‘clacked’ about the weather,
the football results, the price of fame,
the day they broke the tether;
then they sang a song,
a Triffid song,
all ‘boom!’ and ‘bash!’ all ‘chorus’,
it went on for hours,
made wilt my flowers,
and, personally, did bore us.
There are ‘two’ Triffids in our garden,
soon there will be eight,
I should have complained to the council,
but I may be a little late.
Well, if you can’t beat them,
I’ll sing them a jolly song,
perhaps, ‘Tubthumping’ will be just their thing
if I sing it a little long.