Robyn Hitchcock - Point It At Gran lyrics

Alone and pointless by her mouldering self
She stares at the tin of
Sardines on the shelf
By a paraffin lamp in a dingy brown room
Gran sit's and broods in the thickening gloom
It's a gloom that congeals it's
So greasy and thick
You could cut into strips and
Roast on a stick and hand round to friends
But there's nobody there
Just Gran, on her own, in a miserable chair

So don't point it at me point it at Gran
She needs it more than I do
And more than Princess Anne
When Princess Anne's eighty-two
And living in a one room flat in Hackney
Maybe she could do with a bit as well
Don't point it at me
Don't point it at yourself
Just point it at Gran
And the sardines on the shelf
Don't point it at me
I've had more than enough
Just point it at Gran
She could do with plenty of stuff

Don't point it at me point it at Gran
Well, it could be a firehose
Or it could be a flan
Now some people are happy
And some people are bored
And some people are left
And completely ignored
So why should your life end on a dismal note?