Paunchy, Bob and Crispy were three okes that I knew,
They took the train from Germiston and jolled at boogaloos.
Bob could ollie pavements on his slim banana board,
Paunch just schemed security, sipping homebrew from a gourd.
But Crispy, he was special, on that halfpipe he was lord.

I saw the crew the other day, some twenty years have passed.
The train from Germiston is stuffed, the rails got swopped for grass.
The kids stopped going to skateboard except on PS4,
So boogaloos got shitcanned and the boys got shown the door.
But that old half pipe made it, and every other day Crispy carved it stikkend, cos that was just his way.

They found Paunch out in Bruma, with a needle in his arm.
He’d been feeding fish for weeks, or more, so they didn’t tell his mom.
Bob said some words in Boksburg south where they stuck him in the ground,
the Colgate factory workers were the only ones around.
Crispy couldn’t make it, he was off to Tokyo, with his boy Brandon, who’d made it to the show.

If they ever to tell you, skateboarding isn’t meant,
and this and that about Usain, and every other gent,
Tell them bout ol’ Crispy, and his chommies Paunch and Bob, who rode the train from Germiston and didn’t get a job.
And how today, if you ask nice, Crisp will let you see, one of his boys medals, cos he came back home with three.

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