Elbow, elbow. Why are you?
Why do you do the things you do?
Always bending ('cept when straight),
A bit like hinges on a gate.
Elbow, elbow, same old thing
Every day, unstraightening
Them long things that hang from the shoulder,
Perpetual top appendage folder.
Elbow, elbow, what's the point
Of being an upper limb joint?
Wouldn't it make much more sense
To run a local Off Licence?
For then you'd be of use, you see,
To more of the community,
Selling beer and fags and milk
And other things of a similar ilk.
But it seems you never stop to ponder
If you could be an arm beyonder
And make a bigger contribution
To wines and spirits distribution.
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