Oh we look like Arabica beans, old bean,
The finest a fellow can slurp,
But our labels don’t say what they mean, old bean,
And every old bean is a twerp.
You drink us to start up your eyes, old bean,
We tell you the hunkies are dory,
But we’re often in cunning disguise, old bean,
And we tell you a very tall story.
We say we’re the finest of blend, old bean,
Ever crammed in a cabinet jar,
But not what you all comprehend, old bean,
With a tarnish on every star.
Oh you pay for our beans through your nose, old bean,
You nostrils inhale our aroma,
But we never quite smell like a rose, old bean,
And we leave you all deep in a coma.
We promise you some positive grind, old bean,
A sensation in mug or in cup,
But sooner or later you’ll find, old bean,
That we’ve made all the policies up.
No we are not what we claim, old bean,
We’re 10% old bull and cock –
We’re the cons in the confidence game, old bean,
Take a look at our fire sale stock.
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