The French
Kate & Mike

Part 5



Kate:   Oh Mike! Oh can we really?
It sounds so very nice,
And if it's true you're paying,
You don't need ask me twice.
We'll sit down by the window
And dine on pont l'eveque,
And several pints of chardonnay
We'll very swiftly neck.

We'll wear our favourite berets
And onions on a rope,
And any passing ladies
We'll ogle, letch and grope.
We'll listen to French music,
The kind with panting sounds,
And I'll order from the menu.
It will cost you lots of pounds.

And when we've had our dinner
We'll drink their wine some more,
And puke a lot and fall down
Whilst singing "O l'amour".
We'll wreck the joint in seconds,
Create foul mess and stench,
And all because our love is true,
And we can't stand the French.

Mike:   And then we'll get obnoxious
And we'll sing some rugby songs
And then we'll flash our arses
At whoever comes along.
They'll all be most impressed by
My Union Jack underpants,
We know they love the British
'Cos we're the saviours of France.

They'll just need some reminding
Of how we bailed them out
When their cruddy little country
Once did fall to Johnny Kraut
So we'll sing some Vera Lynn songs
And we'll make the victory sign
And we'll toast Sir Winston Churchill
With a welly full of wine.

Then we'll do impersonations
Of Napolean Bonaparte
With our hands inside our waistcoats
And a napkin for a hat
We'll toast the Duke Of Wellington,
Lord Horatio Nelson too,
And we'll sing a hearty chorus
Of Abba's "Waterloo".

Kate:   Oh, it really does sound lovely!
And you know, I think you're right.
Perhaps the French are, after all,
OK and not that shite.
I love their fragrant vineyards
And their cooking tastes divine
And I do believe I've mentioned
How I love their cheese and wine.

I love their gooey croissants
And their funny sticks of bread,
And their pain au chocolate does not,
Fill my heart with dread.
I love their moulles, their oysters,
Their onion soup's good too,
But get away from me with those snails!
I would rather eat my poo.

Mike:   Uuuurrgghhhh! Snails! Eeeuuuuurrrgghhhh!
How can they eat those things?
Oh God, and frogs' legs too!
That really truly mings.
The French, they are disgusting,
Worse than a dose of scabies.
They'd eat a block of goose fat
And I bet they eat their babies.

No, dear Kate, you can't be right,
The French are not that nice.
They eat the most revolting things,
Nob warts and pubic lice.
I can't believe you like these people,
Kate, you make me sick.
If you think the French are good
You must be pretty thick.

Or maybe you are French yourself,
And lead a double life.
Perhaps you are some scummy Froggy's
Filthy, smelly wife.
I bet your body hair is long,
I bet you never wash,
I bet you think a bar of soap,
Is pretty fucking posh!

 
The French
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