We've got this nasty bit of work, lives down on our estate.
He's twelve years old and has become the object of our hate.
This horrid little toe-rag tipped my bin all down my yard,
Not once, not twice, but three times, so I had to mark his card!
He's got this yellow mountain bike, his passion, pride and joy.
He's always ripping up and down and showing off his toy.
Knocking people off the pavements, bumping old folk in his wake,
And cursing, swearing, mouthing off, it's more than we can take.
He got his own come-uppance tho', about a week ago!
The shopping centre we all use is where he likes to go.
He propped his 'yellow peril' up against the side of Boots,
And I snapped into action, well I didn't give two hoots!
I took my little scissors, sunk them deep into his tyre,
A satisfying hiss told me the fat had hit the fire.
I swiftly ran for cover, just to see how he'd react.
He came out, and he saw it, and EXPLODED - that's a fact.
I hurt him, oh I hurt him, and that memory's worth a lot.
You should have seen his face or heard him screeching out 'Oh What?!'
My message to this lad and to the others in his pack,
Don't pick a fight with Grannies, because Grannies can strike back!