There's a little coral island out in the Indian Sea,
The people who reside there, are as weird as weird
All shapes and sizes you will see, like Paddy, Jock
You'll find them dozing in their pits, or boozing
in the NAAFI
Poor unsuspecting moonies, on the first day they
Perspiring, so bewildered and only half alive.
Emerging from the Trannie Block and blinking in the
The nine months of frustration has only just begun.
Maldies by the score you see, end also Ceylonese,
With the smell of Paki curry, adrifting on the breeze.
Frogs arc jumping underfoot end bats fly overhead,
And be careful of the Ghecko when ye climb into your
You lay about and pray the Lord will make you nice
Then for three or four weeks solid, the rain comes
You stumble through the swampland for a drink to ease
And dislocate your flip-flop falling down a monsoon
The days pass by end very soon, your back begins
and your stomach turns over, rejecting every meal.
'Island in the Sun', they said, oh what an observation,
it may not be a downright lie, but still a fabrication.
But time itself heals everything, or so the pundits
And your suicidal tendencies begin to fade away.
Proud to be a Gannite, you join in all the fun,
and mad dogs of Englishmen, go out in the mid-day sun