Blame Tommy
At the evening dinner table,
a silent sneaky unaware;
suddenly a rancid odour
permeates our luncheon air,
and then all around the table
there’s finger pointing or a name,
but once the rancid air does clear,
poor Tommy gets the blame.
Driving along the Murray banks
inside a warm and stuffy car,
we cannot put the windows down
for it’s all dust; there is no tar.
When I glare across at Gary,
that’s when Gary does the same,
so in the end we compromise,
poor Tommy gets the blame.
Tom never answered yes or no,
when ‘ere was made the guilty claim,
just gave a grin; laid back his ears,
and proudly took the blame.
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