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,
join them;
I’ll sing them a jolly song,
perhaps, ‘Tubthumping’ will be just their thing
if I sing it a little long.