Old Meg she was a cleaner
washing walls and floors
like her mop she was old and ragged
from a million scrubbing chores.
Her arsenal was a bucket,
a chamois, a duster, a broom
her aroma was disinfectant,
her B.O. could clear a room.
She sang as she washed the tiles
with a frog lodged in her throat
She whistled a piercing tune
with no danger of hitting a note.
Her breakfast was a fag and coffee
her lunch was a coffee and fag
She was skinny as an HB pencil
with her flesh heading south in a sag.
But the work years took their toll
there was no way she could duck it,
old Meg slipped on a skiddy floor
and finally kicked the bucket.
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