My name it is Ben Archer and I cycle where I like:
It’d take auld Flann O’Brien to tell what is Boy, what Bike.
I’ve run down two policemen and a third is in my sights
As I hurtle through the countryside sans helmet, bell or lights.
My name it is Ben Archer and I ride the Borset lanes.
‘Twixt me scrotum and me family, I’m well enough off for pains.
The crock of shite I’m saddled with makes a brave young spirit sink
I’ll solace myself with cycling
Til I’m old enough to drink.
They say I am ‘artistic’ ‘cos I scribble on the walls
But they can’t read the choicer words: I’ve more brains in me balls.
And before the Home Farm drama, Pip was the Village Trike -
My name it is Ben Archer and I’m out there on my bike
Me brother and me Daddy-o, they give me no thought at all
And me Mammy no thought neither since she dropped me in the hall,
And Granny’s a hooting loony who totters from Aga to sink
And the stench of her Lemon Drizzle could drive a lad to drink.