There’s a lady whose sore and knows something for sure
That she’s wearing a bucket on her head.
Now she’s just lost her bits and her gizzards are stitched
Now she can’t seem to get where she wants to.
Ooh ooh and she’s wearing a bucket on her head.
She’s going up the wall and she knows she is sure
That vet’s going to get a demeaning.
A big bite on the nose and a mouthful of clothes
Are bound to cause her misgivings.
Ooh it makes her blunder.
Ooh it makes her blunder.
There’s a feeling she gets, that is really a pest
That her head is crying for rescue.
Out of sorts she has been with her head stuck in trees
And the laughter of those who stand looking.
Ooh it makes her chunder.
Ooh but it makes her chunder.
She’ll be a doggy loon if it’s not fixed up soon,
That vet she is guilty of treason.
Now she knows she looks just like some weird kind of prawn.
Mallacoota will echo with laughter.
Can’t move a muscle in the hedgerow, being harmed now.
It’s just a big pain, she’s a has-been.
There are no paths that she can go by to have a long run.
She can’t see to change the road she’s on
And it makes her blunder.
Her head keeps jamming and it won’t go where she wants you know
And even eatings a big pain.
Now listen, it’s not fair, a low blow, and don’t you know
Her bucket is just so boringly yuk.
And as she blunders down the road,
And clumsy falling on her nose,
She trips and stumbles side to side,
To try and find a path to go,
But everything just bumps along,
And if you listen very hard,
You’ll hear her singing to herself –
‘If all were one now, I would like
To be a dog with out a cone’.
But she’s wearing a bucket on her head.
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