Last night the world was great he sighed, we really drank some ale.
The party really swung all night but now I'm slightly pale.
It must have been those chicken legs, or some other food I picked.
That has to be the reason why I'm feeling rather sick.
My mouth feels like a shag pile rug, it's a furry shade of grey.
My brains three times it's normal size and throbs each time I lay.
There's beads of sweat upon my brow, though I shiver with the cold.
It has got to be food poisoning it can do this so I'm told.
I've been on the great white telephone since the first slight crack of dawn.
I feel so rough I really wish that I, just wasn't born.
Oh curse the food I ate with glee, it's that that's made me queer.
For it's got to be food poisoning; well it couldn't be the beer.
