X is for A Poem About A Chin

I wish I was Bruce Forsythe
I wish I had his chin
I'd polish it three times a day
And take it for a spin
I'd take it up to Friar Street
And drive it past the pubs
Then take it to a campsite and drive it past some cubs
I'd fill it up with petrol
Every time that it ran low
I'd change it's oil three times a month
So it would always go
If I had old Brucie's chin
I'd have no need to worry
About a place to stand my drink
Each time I had a curry
I'd have no need to knock on doors
My chin would get there first
And when I'm in the desert
My chin will quench my thirst
If I had old Brucie's chin
I'd always get a date
'Cos even if my clothes were shit
I'd still always look great
I could wear a little dickey-bow
Upon my lovely chin
And sprinkle it with after shave
Then feed it lots of gin
The gin would get it tipsy
And it's charm would start to show
It'd chat up all the ladies
And would soon be asked to go
Back to their cosy houses
For a bit of kinky stuff
And then perhaps a cigarette
Or at least a little puff
I'd be best man at it's wedding
And I'd have to make a speech
I'd comment what a gent he was
And how his bride's a peach
I'd organise their honeymoon
A Caribbean cruise
I'd go along as chaperone
And watch them while they snooze
But then when they were married
They'd have no more use for me
I'll be cast aside like some old boot
And all alone I'll be
I wont be sad or lonely though
In fact I'll feel complete
'Cos even without Brucie's chin
I'll still have Dessie's feet!