People think that Bournemouth is a pleasant town,
Full of fun, noisy discos and glorious beaches
(And quite easy to score for a cheap shag with a bit of luck).
But there is another side to the resort:
Believe me, I know, I was there three months ago
And I have seen the doom-city in all its horror.

I was loping along, quite near to the Boscombe Road,
With my elderly father-in-law (a one legged war veteran),
When a gang of murderous fuzzy-headed Albanian youths,
Sky-high on crack cocaine, or some other imported drug-stuff,
Dropped out of the trees with their machetes,
And gave us a damned good vicious bashing-up.

They left poor old Gramps lying there in the gutter,
His skull chopped open and his brain exposed to the elements,
And for what? His mobile phone and its camera facilities.
The old goat dragged out a miserable half-alive existence
For a few hideous weeks in the corridor of Bournemouth's grotty hospital;
Dear God, I shall not be going in a hurry to the Dorset coast again.