What shall we do with a drunken tailor
Who is as looped as a shore-leave sailor,
Carrying on like he's Norman Mailer
On a weekend morning?
He's had - way too much pleasure.
His work - won't be a treasure.
Good grief! Don't let him measure,
On a weekend morning.

Banish the lout to the shoe department.
Sober him up in a back compartment.
Then drive him home to his small apartment
On a weekend morning.
He's way - too drunk for stitching.
Look how - his hands are twitching.
Clients - will all be b*tching
On a weekend morning.

Take all the thread and his fav'rite thimble.
His drunken hands are now far from nimble.
Look at him shake like a drummer's cymbal
On a weekend morning.
Put him - to work at sweeping.
Let him - lie down for sleeping.
Ignore - him if he's weeping
On a weekend morning.

Look at his suit! He's left off a button.
Look at the sleeves! That is lousy cuttin'.
Just send him home. Let his eyes be shuttin'
On a weekend morning.
We hear - his wheeze and puffing.
See his - uneven cuffing.
Just stop - his drunken sloughing
On a weekend morning.