Now I know that beach side picnics and sand
No matter how careful the planning go hand in hand
But it seems whether you sit or whether you stand
Nothing quite goes as you had planned
It doesn't really care where it goes
And I don't just mean between your toes
In your eyes and up your nose
And it doesn't smell like a bleeping rose!
In my shoes and down my shorts
I believe with demons this stuff consorts
To going naked I might resort
And I know I've swallowed at least a quart
When this picnic is over and back home I go
To the warm water of the showers flow
I'll wonder if your troubles are the same as mine
Do you have sand stuck where the sun doesn't shine?