Look under
Look under
From the hotbed of creation
in dreamstate.
The cure, bulletin, zeitung
Was in no pill.
Look under.
The cure was in no pill.
The German athletic star was continually ill.
For months doctors were puzzled.
The star would complain of the smell in his room.
On visiting him this was found to be true.
An odor resembling hot-dogs permeated the whole bedroom.
A solution was only discovered by my closely
watching his brother Gert.
Gert was handsome, well-meaning, but slightly a careless type.
Not malicious, I hope you understand and grasp.
No chance.
But on returning from his clerical job, Gert
would park his Volkswagen at the end of the day
willy-nilly in the driveway, usually the wrong way round,
so that the exhaust fumes would flow upwards right through
the open windows of the athletic star's upstairs bedroom.
(carburettor)
I also discovered that Gert would turn his engine
over for up to an hour. I don't know why.
Citizens in my street are also
partial to this.
Look under.
The cure was in no pill.
Obtaining a new parking space for Gert's motor-car, athletic star soon
recovered.
Unfortunately, this being East Germany,
Gert patriotically volunteered to be sent on a labor
beautification course of the countryside north-west of Dresden.
And never seen again.
And never seen again.
Look under.
The cure was in no pill.
Had to look under the window sill.
The window sill.
Look under.
The cure was in no pill.
Had to look under the window sill.
The window sill.-acap
