There is a pub in Ankh-Morpork
They call the Mended Drum
And it's been the start of many a poor boy
And, Gods, I know I'm one.
My Father was a fighting man
He stomped his enemies flat.
My mother was a working girl
Who came from cold Sto Lat.

A trumpet wails mournfully.

Now my father, he had downed a few
Then said, "Let's have some fun."
And all night they shook the floorboards loose
Upstairs in the Mended Drum.
At dawn he went down to light a fag
Twelve crossbows were aimed at him
He lost his life to the city guard
For malicious lingering.

The heart-breaking bluesy sounds of a saxophone wend out of the jukebox.

Now my mother did not cry at all
For she was unaware
That inside her working lady's womb
A baby she did bear.
When nine months, they had come and gone
My mother did give birth
She asked her friend, the sausage man
What's this snapper worth?

From within the jukebox, a guitarist picks out a bluesy riff.

Now the greedy sot was tempted
And did some research fine.
But for the family holdings
Dear dad was eighth in line.
What little he would get, of course,
Was sure to never be mine
For ahead of this poor bastard son
Were seven brothers fine.

A trumpet wails the blues.

Now it did not take my mother long
To see what she could reap
So came the morning Modo found a babe
On top his compost heap.
So here I sit upon my stool,
And to the barman I do confide,
With my pint of scumble at my hand
And an ape perched by my side.

The sounds of tiny noses being blown slips out from the jukebox.

But Death, I see him coming for me
My life he plans to claim
I know I'll never last till morn'
And this pub will be the same.
So tonight before I leave I swear
A keg, I'll finish one!
And end my days where they begun,
In that pub called the Mended Drum.

As the music comes to an end, a voice from inside the jukebox sniffles:
Oi, that last verse always makes me cry...where's me hankie...

This is possibly by Peter Street

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