There’s a little house in Maketu,
Full of wonderful stuff,
Built by my wife’s eccentric brother,
A bushie, pleasantly rough.
There’s home brew on the floor,
And a TV for the sport,
The notice board records it all,
A diary covers every thought.
There’s a barfridge on power,
That uses valuable space,
Cos’ the homebrew is air cooled,
It’s just that kind of place.
Theres a phone line from the house,
Which runs to the Red square,
And if you ring and ask for Trev,
You’ll always catch him there.
Important business, daily duties,
Where a woman must not pry,
Only done in the Red Square,
Don’t ever ask him why.
And what about the urinal,
He built between shed and fence,
Where men stand and women squat,
Sure makes a lot of sense.
Come and have a drink with me,
Is Trev’s very friendly pledge,
In the Red Square guest’s centre,
Surrounded by a hedge.
It’s wonderful to listen,
Drink home brew, settle in,
As Trev regales fabulous stories,
Involving kith and kin.
And when I married his sister,
T’was a wedding present fair,
Life bloody membership,
To the fabulous Red Square.