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		Christmas is coming, band funds are very tiny Rub Gordon with a brillo-pad until his head is shiny. We won't do no more carolling - it really is a bore Freezing under a street light while you knock on every door. So how will we raise money... by raffling Pauline? I think we'd raise more money with a dirty magazine. On the day we held the barbecue it was extremely hot and sunny Gordon didn't want any stalls so we didn't make any money. Let's have another social night (though we really musn't forget To charge a big fat entry fee and have the bass quartet.) He wants to go to Blackpool but the band couldn't give a toss; November ain't the time of year for sea and candyfloss. Junior band had no conductor but that was soon put right. Louise said that she'd do it for £15 a night. Eilir's not there half the time.  His taste in music is junk. Perhaps he should shave a hole in his head and become a trappist monk!
	Ah, those were the days... September 1996 - Eilir still had his basin haircut and all was right with the world (well, almost).  To avoid embarrassment or censure, this poem has been chopped in half to leave a family friendly look at how we were six years ago!
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