Less Talk, More Jam

When dreadful duty, leads you to the place, where you have stored it. And when walking dog, call the children, he won't bite, then see them run, deranged by what you're dragging round, and have been since you found him eyeless stiff and putrid, after seven months of "oh I wonder where hes got to". Then welcome, ooh born dead through your own arse, welcome in Jam.