| It's a peaceful Sunday morning, |
| But I'm soon awake and yawning, |
| As next doors Victa alarm clock |
| Says it's time the lawn was mown. |
| And the sound of two Porsche engines, |
| Roars from Alan Bond's invention, |
| As it hangs like a vibrator |
| In the skies above my home |
| I lie staring at the ceiling, |
| And I get that sinking feeling, |
| As the kids rush in to tell me |
| That we're going to the beach. |
| And I've got to take my brother, |
| Both my sisters, wife and mother, |
| And I think they're all so lucky |
| That my shotguns out of reach. |
| Since our trips were all suburban, |
| I had bought a Nissan Urvan, |
| Now I run a taxi service |
| For the family with this bus. |
| Though it's 5k's to the beach, |
| It takes half a day to reach, |
| 'Cos the roads are full of people |
| With the same idea as us. |
| It's a really crowded place, |
| And it's hard to find a space, |
| Till you open up your esky, |
| And it smells like someone's died |
| So you grab a patch of sand, |
| Shove a tinnie in your hand, |
| And settle down to suck the fat |
| Off cold Kentucky Fried. |
| But the umbrella's had the dick, |
| And the wife starts feeling sick, |
| As she chunders in the esky |
| On my luke-warm cans of beer. |
| There's bluebottles and flies, |
| And salt water in my eyes, |
| And the young bloke with his spade |
| Is shovelling sand into my ear. |
| Well things are pretty calm, |
| Until they sound the shark alarm, |
| And the oceans full of turds |
| Cos the water board's on strike. |
| So across the beach you scuttle, |
| Jump inside the Holden Shuttle, |
| Though you think it's time to torch the thing |
| And buy yourself a bike. |
| You count the kids once more, |
| And you slam the sliding door, |
| And you curse the suntan lotion |
| As your skin begins to peel. |
| Then the dog shit's on the carpet, |
| And the damn car won't get started, |
| Cos some bastard's nicked the battery, |
| And your four new alloy wheels. |
| So we've had a beach embargo, |
| No more trips in the Tarago, |
| But there's still a few distractions |
| To disturb my Sunday kip. |
| But these things of which I speak, |
| Will be gone within a week, |
| Cos I'm going to shoot the neighbours |
| And destroy that damned airship. |
