I know a man called Michael Finnagen,
He grew whiskers on his Chin-agen,
The wind came out and blew them in again,
Poor-old Michael Finnagen, begin again!
Yes. Otherwise they’ll be peeling you off the ceiling later on this afternoon.
I was singing Grand ol’ Duke of York to him yesterday morning whilst doing the marching actions. His mum turned up to pick him up and stood outside laughing at me through the window.