There's a place in the world for the nasty old man,
With his working class belch and his beer in his hand.
He will grunt when he bends, although sometimes he falls.
When he can’t get back up he just leans on the wall.
He's proud of his scars and the folds in his gut.
He can’t quite control all the noise from his butt.
But he doesn’t care much, he’s a nasty old man.

Spend a moment or two with the nasty old man;
When he runs out of paper he uses his hand.
You won’t like the smell of his breath or his pits,
And he still picks his nose and he still picks his zits.
He farts in his car and he farts in his chair.
And he’s not to concerned that he's lost half his hair.
Cuz he doesn’t care much, he’s a nasty old man.

Hope I never reach the age,
Of con-sti-pa-tion fowl bowel rage
I still can see my own shoes with my own eyes.
While you can pull my finger too
I don’t want a constant spew
When I let a long one rip, it’s a surprise.

EEEEEWWWWWWWWW

But there's always a place for the nasty old man,
He reads sports magazines while he sits on the can.
He's no longer able to stifle his butt,
He makes little brown stains when he lets go a cut.
His clothes are a mess and they give off a smell;
He's teeth have turned brown, he’s got dandruff as well.
He forgot how to shave, he’s a nasty old man.