My
name is Tommy Rawson, I'm a flooring man by trade
If you need a walking surface, I'm the one
to get it made
I can do linoleum or tiles big and small
I can keep 'em square and straighter, I'm
the master of them all
Of all my bread and butter, of the work
that pays the bills
Is the laying of the carpet in the mansions
on the hill
It was there I learned a lesson, though
stranger things are told
Always count your budgies at the end of
the roll.
It
was on a Monday morning when I knocked upon the door
Of the home of Mrs. Kelly who I never saw
before
A carpet for the living-room was all I had
to do
If there wasn't any problems I'd be sure
to be done by two
The thing with Mrs. Kelly is she didn't
live alone
She had a dozen budgie birds of every shade
and tone
But she kept the cages open so they flew
from lamp to pole
They twittered and they flittered as I carried
in the roll.
So
I went about my business with the carpet on the floor
The stretcher strips along the wall, the
threshold at the door
The underlay was easy, the carpet rolled
and cut
I stretched it with the kicker and I rolled
the remnants up
When the job was nearly over, just as I
was about to leave
Adjacent to the window was a little carpet
heave
Something underneath the surface had made
a little bump
So I flattened it with my hammer and I finished
cleaning up.
About
an hour later when I drove back to the shop
Mrs. Kelly on the telephone, upset and in
a knot
A budgie bird named Winifred was missing
from the place
Did I see her out the window, she was gone
without a trace
I thought about the carpet, I thought about
the bump
I thought of how I flattened it 'til there
wasn't any hump
I told her not to worry, pacification was
the goal
Now I always count the budgies at the end
of the roll.
