Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round the stage,
We’ve got a fossil here that’s somehow escaped the museum cage.
Shane George Banks, born in eighteen-seventy-six, they say,
Still paying off his first bloody horse and cart to this very day.
“Well there ya go…” — every second bloody line,
“Ya-no…” before he loses his train of thought every bloody time.
“Ohhh, youuuu BEUATY!” when the toast comes out alright,
Then “Ahhhh, FUCK OFF!” before you’ve even said goodnight.
Heidelberg kid, struttin’ every bloody street,
Thought he owned the suburb with his tiny little feet.
Air Force Cadets from ten to fifteen, standing proud and tall,
Marching like a general… about four foot nothing and all.
Now he’s workin’ in the prison, reckonin’ he’s hard as steel,
Till someone asks the password for his bloody email.
He’ll lecture you for hours with wisdom from the past,
Mate, half your stories started before dinosaurs had arses!
His jokes? Jesus Christ… they’re dry as desert dust,
Archaeologists preserve ’em ’cause they crumble into rust.
You hear the punchline coming from about a week away,
Even crickets pack their bloody bags and quietly walk away.
Then Saturday rolls around… “Just duckin’ down the shops…”
Yeah right, Dad… we’ve heard where the mystery journey stops.
The legendary Blue Moon Massage Parlour, what a coincidence indeed…
Apparently the bloke just really loves… “excellent customer service,” guaranteed.
Comes home grinnin’, whistlin’, shoulders nice and loose,
Claims he only went in there because his back was feelin’ cooked.
“Well there ya go…” he says, avoiding every eye,
Mate, we’ve seen less suspicious alibis from prison blokes that lie.
Then there’s bloody Alex, the osteo, what a sight,
Funny how your back hurts every second bloody night.
“Just an adjustment!” Yeah… that’s what you always claim,
Yet somehow every appointment ends with the biggest bloody smile on your face again.
March twenty-third’s the birthday, candles need a crane,
Fire brigade on standby every bloody year again.
The cake collapses sideways from the weight of all the years,
Even Father Time just shrugs and disappears.
His spoof’s so dry it’s classified a bloody weather event,
The Bureau issues warnings every time the old bloke vents.
If sarcasm earned a pension he’d have retired twice,
Instead he’s still dishing out outdated bloody advice.
But here’s the truth beneath the piss-take and the song,
You’ve been our old man all bloody life long.
Stubborn as a mule, loud as thunder in the shed,
With enough one-liners to wake the bloody dead.
So raise a glass to Daddy, the crankiest old coot around,
Who somehow makes complaining into premium surround sound.
We’ll roast ya till eternity because that’s what families do…
Now give us one last classic—
“AHHHH… FUCK OFF!”
…Well there ya go.
