i woke up this morning and right away

i knew it was a stan laurel kind of day

my hair was standing up like fresh cut hay

cos it was a stan laurel kind of day.

avoiding bossy wives with rolling pins

wearing my stripey nightshirt that comes down to my shins

carrying a piano up twenty flights of stairs

another fine mess i’m in and no-one cares

didn’t go near any sawmills just in case

i have a perplexed expression on my face

can’t think of anything sensible to say

cos it’s a stan laurel kind of day.

before I can even ask the question why

i simply can’t stop fiddling with my bow tie

my bowler hat keeps falling on my face

my voice goes squeaky i really am a disgrace

i find i start to whimper then i cry

and along you come to poke me in the eye.

i think i’d better go and hide away

cos it’s a stan laurel kind of day