Check out my Sunday jumper
Such a nifty little number
Cooler than a cucumber
Don’t you dare rent it asunder
Kind of casual
Every single man'll have a Sunday jumper

Bought from Peacocks in 1995
Now ageing, tatty and barely alive
Not going to win any fashion contests
It slips over my head and covers my vest
Clinging lovingly to my back and chest
What's the natty knitted clothing I like best of all
That many say I should save for funerals?
My Sunday jumper

With patches on the arms
That have patches on them too
Three darned holes
Stains of chicken vindaloo
Never ironed
Full of creases
Though my wife wants to wash it
I refuse to release it
No need to recycle it or put it in the bin
Though virtually transparent where it's torn and worn and thin
It's knackered but does what it says on the tin
The perfect slob wear
For the day of the week when I couldn't care
My Sunday jumper

Monday to Saturday
You'll find me so smart
Scrubbed up, dressed up
A living work of art
But when the Sabbath arrives
It's my guilty pleasure
Being clad in a wooly top
Looking worse than British weather
With Sellotaped seams
Barely holding it together
This furry pal
Bought cheap in a sale
Passed it's sell-by date
Growing staler than stale
Smells of cigarettes, toilets, cats and beer
Yet it can still do the business for at least ten more years
There's not a bad word that I want to hear
About my Sunday jumper