Ye Olden Leg End of the Golden Bellend

You’re about to hit the disco,
but I’d give it a miss tho’,
coz it’ll be packed as Sainsbury’s
on the days before Bank Holidays.

Coz it’s the return of  the Golden Bellend,
Norwich nightlife leg end.
He might not be Goldenballs on the pitch,
but the boogie is his bitch.

And music is his lover,
so in his lugs he sticks Viagra.
His two left feet they are electric
like Norwich Puppetman teaching aerobics.

Please, Bellend, don’t hurt us,
take your  bellend to Cash Converters
He’s the man with the Midas’ Jap’s eye,
a spider’s Jap’s eye.

But he hasn’t really got an aurea galea,
tho’ if you saw him in his regalia,
his granny’s best bingo jacket,
you’d think his nickname quite accurate.

It's not  male form of a vajazzle,
his dong's dome doesn't dazzle,
all that glitters is not his glans
- he's more spangled than Superhans.

He's lit up like a Christmas tree,
you have to to be that funky!
Shakes his junk about about as agile
as father of the bride’s Gangnam Style. 

See him throwing shapes and throwing up,
most florescent bellend in the club.
On the form for Sickness Benefit,
‘Saturday Night Fever’ is what he writ.

Coz it’s the return of the Mack,
too pissed to heed his bad back,
spazzing out to the groove
till that Golden Bellend the bouncers remove.