People think that Torquay is an exotic sunny resort,
Nestling on the South Devon coast, whimsically called
"The English Riviera" by the moronic tourist board,
But mainly famous for its drooping palm trees
And for its notorious lesbian nightlife on Tuesdays.
And also for the fact that I once lived there
And watched a courting couple bonking in a shop doorway.
But enough of these charming youthful memories
And let us move on to the nitty-gritty horror
Of how my poor cousin Ebeneezer got wasted in this delightful borough,
(I fear some readers may be waiting for such an event).
I was there on the Devon Riviera (sorry I already did that bit)
With my immensely obese cousin, "Fatty" Ebeneezer
(who had the benefit of being four foot three in his high heels)
When a gang of would-be Tour de France cyclists,
Sky-high on Lucozade laced with topclass meths,
Their metabolism shot to f*ck with sporting prowess,
Leaped out from a public toilet and cut his head off.
And they left him lying there on the tropical promenade,
His enormous skull detached from his shrunken shoulders,
And for what, a few hundred milk-bottle tops
(he was the European milk-bottle top collector par excellence).
Poor Ebby had to be taken to the morgue in two separate bags
And I got hit for the goddam outrageous funeral costs
As his travel insurance had lapsed because of an oversight.
Dear God, I shall avoid Torbay totally and utterly, ad infinitum.
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