A doyen of topiary once told me
That one day he would like to grow a maze
It seemed to be quite logical
That this should be his wish
And with that, we both went our separate ways

They said you died at seven
Due to something in your head
I asked the Sister why
It wasn't someone else instead

Tonight I'll cry myself a bath of tears and ask the world
"Why is Rod Hull alive – and getting paid as well?"

Heard a Palace Spokesman mention Sarah
Said she'd known the groins of Jacques Laffite
She's well prepared to be a standard bearer
As pure as unproverbial driven sleet

Halfway up the Wrekin with an empty flask of tea
A fog descends and takes away my visibility
Yet in this Helen Keller state I'd still quite like to know
"Why is Rod Hull alive – and getting paid as well?"

And I wonder if they'll bring back National Service and the birch
And I wonder but I doubt if they will ever bring back the Watney Cup