I lived a year in London, but I never saw Saint Paul’s, All famous stunts left undone, nor visited the halls. I lodged in royal quarters, at majesty’s expense, All round the walls of Wormwood’s halls were reared for my defence. Oh, the palace of Wormwood Scrubs, the snarling, the sneers, the snubs, And the long dreary days spent in learning the ways of the palace at Wormwood Scrubs.
In shoddy grey they dressed me, I didn’t dare refuse, Though shape and fit distressed me, I wasn’t asked to choose. My out-spread ears supported the largest size in caps, My feet did cruise in ship-like shoes while a breeze blew through the gaps. Oh, that court suit of Wormwood Scrubs with its skin chaffing irksome rubs, And the blush raising shocks from its open work socks as we wore ‘em in Wormwood Scrubs.
In dignified retirement, I ate three meals a day, My very small requirement was brought in on a tray. But though I grieve to say it, no gold nor silver plate, But vulgar tin my food came in and I often had to wait. Oh, the dinner at Wormwood Scrubs, you people who dine at clubs, Try just once for a treat, with a spoon to eat meat. And you’ll fight shy of Wormwood Scrubs.
Each morn with others banded, I walked the palace ground as etiquette demanded, We circled round and round. At time my dizzy senses were soothed by slumberous spell, But when I woke, I savage spoke and I wished I were in…well, It’s no matter at Wormwood Scrubs, the snarling and sneers and snubs, But if ‘t’werent so bad, one would not be so glad, To bid farewell to Wormwood Scrubs