Folk are leaving with bottles and crates
This closing time on Friday night
The rumour has been spread
And that rumour of course is right
That Fisher is having a party
Everybody knows the score
The entry fee is booze
Hand it over at the door
There's a steam cleaned milk churn
With a few gallons of beer already in
And we've added the odd bottle of vino
The odd drop of whisky and rum and gin
Its Fisher's famous gut rot mix
To ensure we have no waste
The wonderful thing being that
No two glasses have the same taste
Hawkins is serenely discoursing
Slightly askew in his chair
Hardly any body is listening
But Hawk's too happy to care
There's revolution being plotted
With a march on the town hall
But give it another hour and
They'll have forgotten it all
Alliances have been cemented there
The odd offspring been conceived
And in the arms of Bacchus
Many a tension has been relieved
Liz has cooked a curry
Heaps and piles of rice
Folks have on occasion said
She's heavy on the spice
But after four or five glasses
Of Fisher's devil brew
It rather feels that the taste buds
Are well and truly burned through
This is no place for softies
Folk arrive and then disappear
But there's always a hard core
Won't leave ‘til Monday's here
Cos Fisher's famous parties
Last the complete weekend
And it's open house alike
To stranger and to friend
